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Marion  Harland's 


Autobiography 


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THE   STORY   OF   A   LONG   LIFE 


HARPER  &■  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

M  C  M  X 


Copyright,  igio,  by  Harpbr  &  Brothers 


All  rights  reserve 


Published  April,  1910 
Printed  in  the  United  States  0/  America 


\ 

■ 

j 


WITH 

REVERENT  TENDERNESS 

THIS    SIMPLE    STORY    OF    MY    LONG    LIFE 

IS  DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY    FATHER 


•     Ml 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  Forebears  and  Patron  Saint 1 

II.  Lafayette;    Revolutionary   Tales;    Parents'    Mar- 

riage         .....       16 

III  A  Country  Exile;  Death  of  the  First-Born;  Change 
of  Home;  A  Fireside  Tragedy;  "Cogito,  Ergo 
Sum" 27 

IV.  A  Berserker  Rage;  A  Fright;  The  Western  Fever; 

Montrose;  A  Mother  Regained 37 

V.  Our  Powhatan  Home;   A  Country   Funeral;   "Old 

Mrs.  O'Hara" 52 

VL  Old-Fashioned  Husband's  Love-Letter;  An  Almost 
Homicide;  A  "Slaughtered  Monster";  A  Wes- 
leyan  Schoolmistress CI 

VII.  My  First  Tutor;  The  Reign  of  Terror    ....       70 

VIII.  Calm  After  Storm;  Our  Handsome  Yankee  Govern- 

ess; The  Nascent  Author 84 

IX.  A  College   Neighborhood;   The  World  Widens;   A 

Beloved  Tutor;  Colonization  Dreams  and  Dis- 
appointment;  Major  Morton 90 

X.  Family  Letters;  Commencement  at  Hampden-Sidney; 

Then  and  Now 104 

XI.  Back  in  Powhatan;  Old  Virginia  Housewifery;  A 

Singing-Class  in  the  Forties;  The  Simple  Life?  110 

XII.  Election  Day  and  a  Democratic  Barbecue     .     .     .  117 

XIII.  A  Whig  Rally  and  Muster  Day 129 

XIV.  Rumors  of    Changes;    A  Corn-Shucking;    A  Negro 

Topical  Song 143 

XV.  The  Country  Girls  at  a  City  School;  Velvet  Hats 

and  Clay's  Defeat 149 

v 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XVI.  Home    at    Christmas;    A   Candy- Pull   and  Hog- 

Killing 162 

XVII.  A  Notable  Affair  of  Honor 171 

XVIII.  The  Menace  of  Slave  Insurrection 186 

XIX.  Wedding  and  Bridesmaid;  The  Routine  of  a  Large 

Family;  My  First  Bereavement 196 

XX.  Our  True  Family  Ghost-Story 203 

XXI.  Two  Monumental  Friendships 218 

XXII.  The  "Old  African  Church" 227 

XXIII.  How  "Alone"  Came  to  Be 237 

XXIV.  The  Dawning  of  Literary  Life 246 

XXV.  Brought  Face  to  Face  with  My  Fate 254 

XXVI.  Literary    Well- Wishers;    George    D.    Prentice; 

Mrs.  Sigourney;  Grace  Greenwood;  H.  W. 
Longfellow;  James  Redpath;  The  "Wander- 
ing Jew" 262 

XXVII.  My     Northern     Kinspeople;     "Quelqu'un"    and 

Lifelong  Friendship 270 

XXVIII.  My    First    Opera;    "Peter    Parley";    Rachel    as 

"Camille";  Bayard  Taylor;  T.  B.  Aldrich; 
G.  P.  Morris;  Maria  Cummins;  Mrs.  A.  D.  T. 
Whitney 280 

XXIX.  Anna  Cora   (Mo watt)  Ritchie;  Edward  Everett; 

Governor  Wise;  A  Memorable  Dinner- Party     288 

XXX.  A      Musical  Convention;    George  Francis   Root; 

When  "The  Shining  Shore"  was  First 
Sung;  The  Hallelujah  Chorus;  Betrothal; 
Dempster  in  Hiu  Old  Age 297 

XXXI.  Wedding    Bells;    A  Bridal    Tour;    A  Discovered 

Relative;  A  Noble  Life     ........     304 

XXXII.  Parsonage    Life;     William    Wirt    Henry;     His- 

toric Soil;  John  Randolph;  The  Last  of  the 
Randolphs 313 

XXXIII.  Plantation  Preaching;  Colored  Communicants;  A 

"Mighty  Man  in  Prayer" 325 

XXXIV.  My    Novitiate    as    a    Practical    Housewife;    My 

Cook   "Gets  Her  Hand  Out";   Inception  of 
"Common  Sense  in  the  Household"  ....     333 
vi 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXXV.  The  Stirred  "Nest  Among  the  Oaks";  A  Crucial 

Crisis 346 

XXXVI.  Migration     Northward;     Acclimation;     Albert 

Edward,   Prince   of  Wales,  in   New   York; 
Political  Portents 355 

XXXVII.  The  Panic  of  '61;  A  Virginia  Vacation;  Mutter- 

ings  of  Coming  Storm 363 

XXXVIII.  The  Fourteenth  of  April,  1861,  in  Richmond   .  370 

XXXIX.  "The  Last  Through  Train  for  Four  Years"    .  382 
XL.               Domestic    Sorrows    and    National    Storm  and 

Stress;   Friends,  Tried  and  True  ....     389 

XLI.  Fort  Delaware;  "Old  Glory";  Lincoln's  Assas- 

sination; The  Released   Prisoner  of  War.     399 

XLII.  A  Christmas  Reunion;  A  Midnight  Warning;  How 
a  Good  Man  Came  to  "The  Happiest  Day  of 
His  Life" 408 

XLIII.  Two  Bridals;  A  Birth  and  a  Passing;  "My  Little 

Love";  "  Drifting  Out";  A  Nonpareil  Parish     417 

XLIV.  Two  Years  Overseas;  Life  in  Rome  and  Geneva     427 

XLV.  Sunnybank;  A  New  England  Parish;  "My  Boys"; 

Two  "Starred"  Names 436 

XLVI.  Return  To  Middle  States;  The  Holy  Land;  My 
Friends  the  Missionaries;  Two  Consuls  in 
Jerusalem 448 

XLVII.  Lucerne;  Good  Samaritans  and  an  Englishman; 
A  Lecture  Tour;  Ohioan  Hospitality;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  McKlnley 457 

XLVIII.  The  Clouds  Return'  After  the  Rain;  Abroad 
Again;  Healing  and  Health;  Idyllic  Winter 
in  Florence 470 

XLIX.  The  Going-Out  of  a  Young  Life;  Present  Ac- 
tivities; "Literary  Hearthstones";  Grate- 
ful Reminiscences 481 

Appendix 491 

A  Fraternal  Tribute 
The  Golden  Wedding 


FOREWORD 

From  the  time  when,  as  a  mere  baby,  I  dreamed  my- 
self to  slumber  every  night  by  "making  up  stories,"  down 
to  the  present  hour,  every  human  life  with  which  I  have 
been  associated,  or  of  which  I  had  any  intimate  knowl- 
edge, has  been  to  me  a  living  story.  All  interest  me  in 
some  measure.  Many  enlist  my  sympathy  and  fascinate 
the  imagination  as  no  tale  that  is  avowedly  fictitious  has 
ever  bewitched  me. 

LI  hold  and  believe  for  certain  that  if  I  could  draw  aside 
the  veil  of  conventional  reserve  from  the  daily  thinking, 
feeling,  and  living  of  my  most  commonplace  acquaintance, 
and  read  these  from  " Preface"  to  "Finis,"  I  should  rate 
the  wildest  dream  of  the  novelist  as  tame  by  comparison. 

My  children  tell  me,  laughingly,  that  I  "turn  every- 
thing into  a  story."  In  my  heart  I  know  that  the  ro- 
mances are  all  ready-made  and  laid  to  my  hand. 

In  the  pages  that  follow  this  word  of  explanation  I 
have  essayed  no  dramatic  effects  or  artistic  "situations." 
"The  Story  of  My  Long  Life"  tells  itself  as  one  friend 
might  talk  to  another  as  the  two  sit  in  the  confidential 
firelight  on  a  winter  evening.  The  idea  of  reviewing  that 
life  upon  paper  first  came  to  me  with  the  consciousness— 
which  was  almost  a  shock — that,  of  all  the  authors  still  on 
active  professional  duty  in  our  country,  I  am  the  only  one 
whose  memory  runs  back  to  the  stage  of  national  history 
that  preceded  the  Civil  War  by  a  quarter-century.  I, 
alone,  am  left  to  tell,  of  my  own  knowledge  and  experience, 

ix 


FOREWORD 

what  the  Old  South  was  in  deed  and  in  truth.  Other  and 
far  abler  pens  than  mine  have  portrayed  scenes  of  those 
days  with  skill  I  cannot  emulate.  But  theirs  is  hearsay 
evidence — second-hand  testimony  as  truly  as  if  they  wrote 
of  Shakespeare's  haps  and  mishaps  in  the  grammar-school 
at  Stratford-on-Avon,  or  of  Master  George  Herbert's  early 
love  affairs. 

True,  the  fathers  told  it  to  the  generation  following,  and 
the  generation  has  been  faithful  to  the  traditions  com- 
mitted to  it.  What  I  have  to  say  in  the  aforesaid  gossip 
over  the  confidential  fire  is  of  what  I  saw  and  heard  and 
did — and  was  in  that  hoary  Long  Ago. 

Throughout  the  telling  I  have  kept  the  personal  touch. 
The  story  is  autobiography — not  history.  I  began  it  for 
my  children,  whose  importunities  for  tales  of  the  olden — 
and  now  forever  gone — "times"  have  been  taken  up  by 
the  least  grandchild. 

It  was  my  lot  to  know  the  Old  South  in  her  prime,  and 
to  see  her  downfall.  Mine  to  witness  the  throes  that 
racked  her  during  four  black  and  bitter  years.  Mine  to 
watch  the  dawn  of  a  new  and  vigorous  life  and  the  full 
glory  of  a  restored  Union.  I  shall  tell  of  nothing  that  my 
eyes  did  not  see,  and  depict  neither  tragedy  nor  comedy 
in  which  I  was  not  cast  for  a  part. 

Mine  is  a  story  for  the  table  and  arm-chair  under  the 
reading-lamp  in  the  living-room,  and  not  for  the  library 
shelves.  To  the  family  and  to  those  who  make  and  keep 
the  home  do  I  commit  it. 

Marion  Harland. 

New  York  City,  November,  1909. 


MARION      HARLAND'S 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


MARION      HARLAND'S 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

My  father,  Samuel  Pierce  Hawes,  was  born  in  the  town 
of  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  July  30,  1799. 

The  homestead,  still  standing  and  reckoned  among  the 
notable  sites  of  the  region,  was  built  in  1640,  by  Robert 
Pierce,  who  emigrated  to  the  New  World  in  1630,  having 
sailed  from  Plymouth,  England,  in  the  Mary  and  John, 
in  company  with  others  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  Colony. 
On  the  voyage,  he  married  Ann  Greenaway — registered  as 
"Daughter  of  Goodman  Greenaway,"  a  fellow-passenger. 

The  family  trace  their  descent,  by  old  domestic  and  town 
records,  from  the  Northumberland  Percies.  Traditions, 
cherished  by  the  race,  affirm  that  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  was 
a  remote  ancestor.  It  is  unquestionably  true  that  "  Robert 
of  Dorchester,"  as  he  is  put  down  in  the  genealogy  of  the 
Percies,  was  a  blood  relative  of  Master  George  Percy,  John 
Smith's  friend,  and  his  successor  in  the  presidency  of  the 
Jamestown  colony. 

The  emigrants  had  a  temporary  home  in  Neponset 
Village,  prospering  so  far  in  worldly  substance  as  to  justify 
the  erection  of  the  substantial  house  upon  the  hill  over- 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

looking  the  "  village,"  ten  years  after  the  landing.  So 
substantial  was  it,  and  so  honest  were  the  builders,  that  it 
has  come  down  in  a  direct  line  from  father  to  son,  and  been 
inhabited  by  ten  generations  of  thrifty  folk  who  have  left 
it  stanch  and  weatherproof  to  this  day. 

My  father's  mother,  a  handsome,  wilful  girl  of  seventeen, 
ran  away  to  be  married  to  one  whom  her  father — "Squire 
Pierce" — considered  a  presumptuous  adventurer.  He  was 
from  Maine,  a  stranger  in  the  neighborhood,  and  re- 
puted (justly)  to  be  wild  and  unsteady.  When  he  asked 
for  the  girl's  hand  he  was  summarily  commanded  to  hold 
no  further  communication  with  her.  He  had  served  as  a 
private  in  the  Revolutionary  War;  he  had  winning  ways 
and  a  good-looking  face,  and  Ann  had  a  liberal  spiceof  her 
sire's  unbending  will.  She  would  have  him,  and  no  other 
of  the  youths  who  sued  for  her  favor. 

The  family  genealogy  records  that  "Squire  Pierce," 
as  he  was  named  by  his  neighbors,  received  a  captain's 
commission  from  the  parent  government  at  the  outbreak 
of  the  Rebellion,  and  on  the  self-same  day  one  from  the 
Continental  Congress  appointing  him  as  a  colonel  in  the 
Massachusetts  forces.  As  "Colonel  Pierce,"  he  fought 
throughout  the  eight  bloody  years  to  which  we  owe  our 
national  life. 

In  his  home  he  was  a  despot  of  the  true  Puritan,  patri- 
archal type. 

For  three  years  after  the  elopement  the  name  of  his 
daughter's  husband  was  never  uttered  in  his  hearing.  Nor 
did  she  enter  the  house,  until  at  twenty,  her  proud  spirit 
bowed  but  not  broken  by  sorrows  she  never  retailed,  she 
came  back  to  the  old  roof-tree  on  the  eve  of  her  confine- 
ment with  her  first  and  only  child.  He  was  born  there 
and  received  the  grandfather's  name  in  full.  From  that 
hour  he  was  adopted  as  a  son  of  the  house  by  the  stern  old 
Puritan,  and  brought  up  at  his  knees. 


FOREBEARS    AND    PATRON    SAINT 

With  the  shrewd  sense  and  sturdy  independence  charac- 
teristic of  the  true  New-Englander,  the  mother  was  never 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  her  boy  was  half-orphaned  and 
dependent  upon  his  grandfather's  bounty,  and  began  early 
to  equip  him  for  a  single-handed  fight  with  the  world. 

Within  a  decade  I  have  studied  an  authentic  and  de- 
tailed genealogy  of  the  Hawes  stock  from  which  my  grand- 
father sprang.  It  is  a  fine  old  English  family,  and  the 
American  branch,  in  which  appear  the  birth  and  death 
of  Jesse  Hawes,  of  Maine,  numbers  many  men  of  distinction 
in  various  professions.  It  is  a  comfort  to  a  believer  in 
heredity  to  be  assured  that  the  tree  was  sound  at  heart,  in 
spite  of  the  warped  and  severed  bough. 

By  the  time  my  father  was  fourteen,  he  was  at  work  in  a 
Boston  mercantile  house,  boarding  with  his  employer, 
Mr.  Baker,  a  personal  friend  of  the  Pierces.  The  growing 
lad  walked  out  to  Dorchester  every  Saturday  night  to  spend 
Sunday  at  home  and  attend  divine  service  in  the  "  Dorches- 
ter Old  Meeting-House,"  the  same  in  which  I  first  saw  and 
heard  Edward  Everett  Hale,  over  forty  years  later.  The 
youth  arose,  in  all  weathers,  before  the  sun  on  Monday 
morning  in  order  to  be  at  his  place  of  business  at  seven 
o'clock.  When  he  was  sixteen,  his  employer  removed  to 
Richmond,  Virginia,  and  took  his  favorite  clerk  with  him. 
From  Boston  to  the  capital  of  the  Old  Dominion  was  then 
a  fortnight's  journey  by  the  quickest  mode  of  travel.  The 
boy  could  hardly  hope  to  see  his  mother  even  once  a  year. 

At  twenty-five  he  was  an  active  member  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church  in  Richmond,  established  and  built 
up  by  Rev.  John  Holt  Rice,  D.D.,  who  was  also  the  founder 
of  Union  Theological  Seminary,  now  situated  in  Richmond. 
The  young  New-Englander  was,  likewise,  a  teacher  in  the 
Sunday-school — the  first  of  its  kind  in  Virginia,  conducted 
under  the  auspices  of  Doctor  Rice's  church — a  partner  in  a 
flourishing  mercantile  house,  and  engaged  to  be  married  to 
2  3 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Miss  Judith  Anna  Smith,  of  Olney,  a  plantation  on  the 
Chickahominy,  five  miles  from  the  city. 

I  have  a  miniature  of  my  father,  painted  upon  ivory  a 
few  years  after  his  marriage.  It  is  that  of  a  handsome 
man,  with  deeply  set  gray  eyes,  very  dark  hair,  and  a  well- 
cut,  resolute  mouth.  The  head  is  nobly  shaped,  the  fore- 
head full  and  broad.  His  face  was  singularly  mobile,  and 
deeply  lined,  even  in  youth. 

In  intellect  he  was  far  above  the  average  business  man. 
His  library,  at  that  early  date,  was  more  than  respectable. 
Some  of  the  most  valuable  early  editions  of  the  English 
classics  that  enrich  my  book-shelves  have  his  book-plate 
upon  the  fly-leaves.  He  had,  moreover,  a  number  of 
standard  French  books,  having  studied  the  language  with 
a  tutor  in  the  evenings.  The  range  of  his  reading  was 
wide  and  of  a  high  order.  Histories,  biographies,  books  of 
travel,  and  essays  had  a  prominent  place  in  his  store  of 
"solid  reading."  That  really  good  novels  were  not  in- 
cluded in  this  condemnation  we  learn  from  a  brief  note  to 
his  betrothed,  accompanying  a  copy  of  Walter  Scott's 
Pirate.  He  apologizes  for  the  profanity  of  certain  charac- 
ters in  semi-humorous  fashion,  and  signs  himself,  "Your 
friend,  Samuel." 

Doctor  Rice,  whose  wife  was  my  mother's  first  cousin, 
appreciated  young  Hawes's  character  and  ability;  the 
parsonage  was  thrown  open  to  him  at  all  times,  and 
within  the  hospitable  precincts  he  first  met  his  future  wife. 

She  was  a  pretty,  amiable  girl  of  eighteen,  like  himself 
an  omnivorous  reader,  and,  like  him  also,  a  zealous  church- 
worker. 

Her  father,  Capt.  William  Sterling  Smith,  was  the  master 
of  the  ancestral  estate  of  Olney,  rechristened  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  eighteenth  century  by  an  ardent  admirer 
of  William  Cowper.  I  am  under  the  impression  that  the 
change  of  name  was  the  work  of  my  grandmother,  his  second 

4 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

wife,  Miss  Judith  Smith,  of  Montrose,  and  a  second  cousin  of 
"Captain  Sterling,"  as  he  was  familiarly  called. 

Late  in  the  seventeenth  century,  William  Smith,  of 
Devonshire,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  brother  and  heir 
of  Capt.  John  Smith  of  Pocahontas  fame,  married  Ann 
Sterling  in  England,  and,  emigrating  to  America,  pitched 
his  moving  tent,  first  in  Gloucester,  then  in  Henrico  County. 
His  cousin,  bearing  the  same  name,  took  up  land  in  Pow- 
hatan, naming  his  homestead  for  the  hapless  Earl  of 
Montrose.  The  questionable  custom  of  the  intermarriage 
of  cousins  prevailed  in  the  clan,  as  among  other  old  Vir- 
ginia families. 

My  maternal  grandmother  was  petite,  refined  in  feature, 
bearing,  and  speech,  and  remarkable  in  her  day  for  in- 
tellectual vivacity  and  moral  graces.  Her  chief  associates 
of  the  other  sex  were  men  of  profound  learning,  distin- 
guished for  services  done  to  Church  and  State.  Among 
them  were  the  founders  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  in 
Virginia.  The  Smiths  had  seceded  from  the  Established 
Church  of  England  before  Thomas  Jefferson  rent  it  from 
the  State. 

There  lies  at  my  elbow  a  time-worn  volume  bound  in  un- 
polished calf-skin,  and  lettered  on  one  side,  "  D.  Lacy's 
Letters";  on  the  reverse,  "Friendship  Perpetuated."  It 
contains  one  hundred  and  forty-two  letters,  copied  from 
the  original  epistles  and  engrossed  in  exquisitely  neat  and 
minute  characters.  They  represent  one  side  of  a  cor- 
respondence maintained  by  the  scribe  with  my  grand- 
mother before  and  after  her  marriage.  The  writer  and 
copyist  was  the  Rev.  Drury  Lacy,  D.D.,  then  a  professor  in 
Hampden  Sidney  College,  and  destined  to  become  the 
progenitor  of  a  long  line  of  divines  and  scholars.  The 
Hoges,  Lacys,  Brookeses,  and  Waddells  were  of  this 
lineage.  The  epistles  are  Addisonian  in  purity  of  moral 
teaching   and   in   grammatical   structure,    Johnsonian   in 

5 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

verboseness,  and  interfused  throughout  with  a  pietistic 
priggishness  all  their  own.  We  are  glad  to  carry  with  us 
through  the  perusal  (in  instalments)  of  the  hundred  and 
forty-two,  the  tales  current  in  that  all-so-long-ago  of  the 
genial  nature  and  liveliness  of  conversation  that  made 
him  a  star  in  social  life.  One  wonders,  in  hearing  of  the 
"perpetuation"  of  the  brotherly  -  and  -  sisterly  intimacy, 
begun  months  before  he  wedded  the  "Nancy"  of  the 
Montrose  group,  who,  from  all  I  have  been  able  to  gather, 
was  a  very  commonplace  personage  by  comparison  with 
"Judith" — one  marvels,  I  say,  that  the  affection  never 
ripened  into  a  warmer  sentiment.  They  had  themselves 
better  in  hand  evidently  than  the  "affinities"  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

Old  people  I  knew,  when  a  child,  delighted  in  relating 
how,  when  "Mr.  Lacy"  held  meetings  in  country  churches 
in  Powhatan  and  Prince  Edward,  and  his  sister-in-law  was 
in  the  congregation,  everybody  listened  for  the  voices  of 
those  two.  His  was  strong,  flexible,  and  sweet,  and  he  read 
music  as  he  read  a  printed  page.  While  she,  as  an  old 
admirer — who  up  to  his  eightieth  year  loved  to  visit  my 
mother  that  he  might  talk  of  his  early  love — used  to  declare, 
"sang  like  an  angel  just  down  from  heaven." 

She  added  all  womanly  accomplishments  to  musical  skill 
and  literary  tastes.  An  embroidered  counterpane,  of  which 
I  am  the  proud  owner,  is  wrought  in  thirteen  varieties  of 
stitch,  and  in  patterns  invented  by  herself  and  three  sisters, 
the  only  brother  contributing  what  may  be  classed  as  a 
"conventional  design"  of  an  altar  and  two  turtle-doves 
perched  upon  a  brace  of  coupled  hearts— symbolical  of  his 
passion  for  the  beauty  of  the  county,  Judith  Mosby, 
of  Fonthill,  whom  he  married.  Our  Judith  held  on  the 
peaceful  tenor  of  her  way,  reading  all  the  books  she  could 
lay  her  shapely  hands  upon,  keeping  up  her  end  of 
correspondences  with  Lacys,  Rices,  Speeces,  Randolphs, 

6 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

and  Blaines,  and  gently  rejecting  one  offer  after  another, 
until  she  married  at  thirty-three — an  advanced  stage  of 
spinsterdom,  then  —  honest  Capt.  Sterling  Smith,  the 
widower-father  of  three  children. 

Her  husband  was  the  proprietor  of  broad  acres,  a  man 
of  birth  and  fair  education,  high-minded,  honorable,  and 
devoted  to  his  delicate  wife.  Nevertheless,  the  dainty 
chatelaine  must,  sometimes,  have  missed  her  erudite  ad- 
mirers, and  wished  in  her  heart  that  the  worthy  planter 
were,  intellectually,  more  in  tune  with  herself. 

My  own  mother's  recollections  of  her  mother  were  vivid, 
and  I  never  wearied  of  hearing  them.  My  grandmother's 
wedding  night-gown,  which  I  have,  helps  me  to  picture  her 
as  she  moved  about  the  modest  homestead,  directing  and 
overseeing  servants,  key-basket  on  arm,  keeping,  as  she 
did,  a  daily  record  of  provisions  "given  out"  from  store- 
room and  smoke-house,  writing  down  in  her  hand-book 
bills-of-fare  for  the  week  (my  mother  treasured  them  for 
years),  entertaining  the  friends  attracted  by  her  influence, 
her  husband's  hospitality,  and  his  two  daughters'  charms 
of  person  and  disposition. 

This  gown  is  of  fine  cambric,  with  a  falling  collar  and  a 
short,  shirred  waist.  The  buttons  are  wooden  moulds, 
covered  with  cambric,  and  each  bears  a  tiny  embroidered 
sprig.  Collar  and  sleeves  are  trimmed  with  ruffles,  worked 
in  scallops  by  her  deft  fingers.  The  owner  and  wearer  was 
below  the  medium  height  of  women,  and  slight  to  fragility. 
Her  love  of  the  beautiful  found  expression  in  her  exqui- 
site needlework,  in  copying  "commonplace-books"  full  of 
poetry  and  the  music  she  loved  passionately,  and  most 
healthful  of  all,  in  flower-gardening.  Within  my  memory, 
the  white  jessamine  planted  by  her  still  draped  the  window 
of  "the  chamber"  on  the  first  floor.  Few  Virginia  house- 
wives would  consent  to  have  their  bedrooms  up-stairs. 
"Looking  after  the  servants"  was  no  idle  figure  of  speech 

7 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

with  them.  Eternal  vigilance  was  the  price  of  home 
comfort.  A  hardy  white-rose-tree,  also  planted  by  her, 
lived  almost  as  long  as  the  jessamine — her  favorite  flower. 

In  the  shade  of  the  bower  formed  by  these,  Mrs.  Judith 
Smith  sat  with  her  embroidery  on  summer  days,  her  little 
name-daughter  upon  a  cricket  beside  her,  reading  aloud 
by  the  hour.  It  was  rather  startling  to  me  to  learn  that, 
at  thirteen,  the  precocious  child  read  thus  Pamela,  The 
Children  of  the  Abbey,  and  Clarissa  to  the  sweet-faced, 
white -souled  matron.  Likewise  The  Rambler,  Rasselas, 
Shakespeare,  and  The  Spectator  (unexpurgated).  But 
Young's  Night  Thoughts,  Thomson's  Seasons,  Paradise 
Lost,  Pope's  Essays,  and  the  Book  of  Books  qualified  what- 
ever of  evil  might  have  crept  into  the  tender  imagination 
from  the  strong  meat,  spiced.  Cowper  was  a  living  presence 
to  mother  and  girl.  My  mother  could  repeat  pages  of 
The  Tas  from  memory  fifty  years  after  she  recited  them 
to  her  gentle  teacher,  and  his  hymns  were  the  daily  food 
of  the  twain. 

The  Olney  family  drove  in  the  heavy  coach  over  heavy 
roads  five  miles  in  all  weathers  to  the  First  Presbyterian 
Church  of  Richmond.  My  grandfather  had  helped  raise 
the  money  for  the  building,  as  his  letters  show,  and  was  one 
of  the  elders  ordained  soon  after  the  church  was  organized. 

Thither  they  had  gone  on  Christmas  Sunday,  1811,  to 
be  met  on  the  threshold  by  the  news  of  the  burning  of  the 
theatre  on  Saturday  night.  My  mother,  although  but  six 
years  old,  never  forgot  the  scenes  of  that  day.  Doctor 
Rice  had  deviated  from  the  rutted  road  of  the  "long  prayer" 
constructed  by  ecclesiastical  surveyors  along  the  lines 
of  Adoration,  Confession,  Thanksgiving,  Supplication  ("A, 
C,  T,  S") — to  talk  as  man  to  man  with  the  Ruler  of  the 
universe  of  the  terrible  judgment  which  had  befallen  the 
mourning  city.  He  had  even  alluded  to  it  in  his  sermon, 
and  it  was  discussed  in  awe-stricken  tones  by  lingering 

8 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

groups  in  the  aisles  when  service  was  over.  Then,  her 
little  hand  locked  fast  in  that  of  her  mother,  the  child  was 
guided  along  the  valley  and  up  the  steep  hill  to  the  smoking 
ruins,  surrounded  by  a  silent  crowd,  many  of  them  in  tears. 
In  low,  impressive  accents  the  mother  told  the  baby  what 
had  happened  there  last  night,  and,  as  the  little  creature 
began  to  sob,  led  her  on  up  the  street.  A  few  squares 
farther  on,  my  grandfather  and  a  friend  who  walked  with 
him  laughed  slightly  at  something  they  said  or  saw,  and 
my  grandmother  said,  sorrowfully: 

"How  can  you  laugh  when  sixty  fellow-creatures  lie 
dead  over  there — all  hurried  into  Eternity  without  warn- 
ing?" 

I  have  never  passed  the  now-old  Monumental  Church 
without  recalling  the  incident  engraved  upon  my  childish 
mind  by  my  mother's  story. 

In  the  volume  of  "D.  Lacy's  Letters"  I  found,  laid  care- 
fully between  the  embrowned  leaves  for  safest  keeping, 
several  letters  from  Capt.  Sterling  Smith  to  his  "dear 
Judy,"  and  one  from  her  to  him,  written  while  she  was 
on  a  visit  to  Montrose,  her  birthplace,  with  her  only  son. 
We  have  such  a  pretty,  pathetic  expression  of  her  love 
for  husband  and  child,  and  touches,  few  but  graphic,  that 
outline  for  us  so  clearly  her  personality  and  environment, 
that  I  insert  it  here: 

"Montrose,  September  5th,  1817. 
"  (Ten  o'clock  at  night.) 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Smith, — I  am  sitting  by  my  dear  Josiah,  who 
continues  ill.  His  fever  rises  about  dark.  The  chills  are  less 
severe,  and  the  fever  does  not  last  as  long  as  it  did  a  week 
ago.  Still,  he  suffers  much,  and  is  very  weak.  He  has  taken 
a  great  deal  of  medicine  with  very  little  benefit.  His  gums 
are  sore.  The  doctor  thinks  they  are  touched  by  the  calomel. 
He  was  here  this  morning,  and  advised  some  oil  and  then  the 
bark. 

"We  have   been   looking  for  you  ever  since  yesterday. 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Poor  fellow!  He  longs  to  see  you — and  so  do  I!  I  was  up 
last  night,  and  I  have  been  to-night  very  often — indeed,  almost 
constantly — at  the  door  and  the  window,  listening  for  the 
sound  of  your  horse's  feet.  I  have  written  by  post,  by  John 
Morton,  and  by  Mr.  Mosby.  I  think  if  you  had  received 
either  of  the  notes  I  should  see  you  to-night,  unless  something 
serious  is  the  matter.  I  am  so  much  afraid  that  you  are  ill 
as  to  be  quite  unhappy. 

"My  love  to  my  dear  girls  and  all  the  family.  My  dear! 
my  heart  is  sore!  Pray  that  God  may  support  me.  I  am 
too  easily  depressed  —  particularly  when  you  are  not  with 
me.  I  long  to  see  you!  I  hope  I  shall  before  you  receive  this. 
God  bless  you! 

"Your  very  affectionate — your  own  Judy. 

"  (Saturday  morning.) 
"We  are  both  better.     Josiah's  fever  is  off,  but  he  is  very 
weak." 

That  the  wife  should  begin  the  love-full  epistle,  "My 
dear  Mr.  Smith,"  and  sign  it,  "your  own  Judy,"  seems  the 
queerer  to  modern  readers  when  it  is  considered  that  her 
husband  was  also  her  cousin,  and  had  married  her  niece 
as  his  first  wife.  Few  wives  called  their  lords  by  their 
Christian  names  a  hundred  years  back,  and  the  custom  is 
not  yet  fully  established  in  the  Southern  States. 

The  few  letters  written  by  my  grandfather  that  have 
been  preserved  until  now  show  him  to  have  been  a  man 
of  sincere  piety,  sterling  sense,  and  affectionate  disposi- 
tion. One  herewith  given  betrays  what  a  wealth  of  ten- 
derness was  poured  out  upon  his  fairy-like  wife.  It  like- 
wise offers  a  fair  sketch  of  the  life  of  a  well-to-do  Virginia 
planter  of  that  date. 

His  wife  was  visiting  her  Montrose  relatives. 

"Olney,  March  30th,  1814. 
"With  inexpressible  pleasure  I  received  yours  by  Mr.  Mos- 
by.    I  rejoice  that  the  expected  event  with  our  dear  sister 

10 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

has  turned  out  favorably,  and  that  you,  my  dear,  are  enjoy- 
ing better  health. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  not  be  uneasy  about  my  lonely 
situation.  Every  one  must  know  that  it  cannot  be  agreeable, 
but  when  I  consider  that  you  may  be  benefited  by  it,  and 
even  that  your  health  may  be  restored  (which  we  have  reason 
to  hope  for),  what  would  I  not  forego  to  secure  so  great  a 
blessing! 

"I  have  kept  close  at  home,  except  when  I  went  to  meeting 
on  Sabbath,  and  to  town  to-day  to  hear  from  you.  During 
the  day  I  have  been  busy,  and  at  night  have  enjoyed  the 
company  of  good  books  until  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  then  gone 
to  bed  and  slept  tolerably  well.  I  eat  at  the  usual  times, 
and  have  as  good  health  as  usual.  Thus  situated,  I  will  try 
to  be  as  comfortable  as  I  can  until  God  shall  be  pleased  to 
bring  us  together  again. 

"Some  of  our  black  people  are  still  sick.  Amy  is  much 
better,  and  speaks  plainly.  Rose  is  but  poorly,  yet  no  worse. 
Nanny  is  in  appearance  no  better.  Becky  has  been  really 
sick,  but  seems  comfortable  this  evening.  The  doctor  has 
ordered  medicine  which  will,  I  hope,  restore  her  to  health. 
Oba  was  a  little  while  in  the  garden  on  Monday,  but  has  been 
closely  housed  ever  since.  His  cough  is  very  bad,  and  I 
suppose  him  unable  to  labor. 

"I  wish  to  come  for  you  as  soon  as  possible,  and  I  would, 
if  I  could,  rejoin  you  to-morrow.  The  election  would  not 
keep  me,  but  I  have  business  I  wish  to  attend  to  this  week, 
and  also  to  attend  the  meeting  of  the  Bible  Society  at  the 
Capitol  on  Tuesday.  I  hope  to  see  you  on  Wednesday.  I 
wish  you  to  be  prepared  to  come  home  with  me  soon  after 
that.  With  regard  to  Betsy,  I  don't  expect  she  will  be 
ready  to  come  home  with  us,  and,  if  she  could,  I  dread  riding 
an  ill-gaited  horse  thirty  miles.  Mr.  Mosby's  carriage  is  to 
go  to  Lynchburg  in  a  few  days,  and  he  talks  of  returning  home 
by  way  of  Prince  Edward,  and  bringing  the  two  Betsies  home. 
The  carriage  will  be  empty.  I  shall  persuade  him  to  be  in 
earnest  about  it. 

"Now,  my  dear,  I  must  conclude  with  committing  you  to 

11 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  care  of  our  Heavenly  Father.  May  He  keep  you  from 
every  evil!  Give  my  love  to  the  dear  family  you  are  with. 
May  you  be  a  comfort  to  them,  and  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  God  to  do  them  good!  Kiss  my  little  ones  for  me, 
and  tell  them  I  love  them! 

"Your  own  affectionate, 

"Wm.  S.  Smith.'-' 

The  matter-of-fact  manner  in  which  the  writer  hints  at 
the  ride  of  thirty  miles  upon  the  ill-gaited  horse  he  would 
have  to  bestride  if  the  women,  babies,  and  maid  filled  the 
family  chariot,  and  his  intention  of  making  Mr.  Mosby 
"earnest"  in  the  scheme  of  despatching  his  empty  carriage 
to  Lynchburg— a  distance  of  one  hundred  and  forty  miles 
— returning  by  way  of  Prince  Edward,  eighty  miles  from 
Olney — to  fetch  "the  two  Betsies"  home,  was  a  perfectly 
natural  proceeding  in  the  eyes  of  him  who  wrote  and  of 
her  who  read.  There  was  not  so  much  as  a  stage-coach 
route  between  the  two  towns.  Heavy  as  were  the  car- 
riages that  swung  and  creaked  through  the  red  mud-holes 
and  corduroy  roads  that  did  duty  for  thoroughfares  all 
over  the  State,  they  were  on  the  go  continually,  except 
when  the  mud-holes  became  bottomless  and  the  red  clay 
as  sticky  as  putty.  Then  men  and  women  went  on  horse- 
back, unless  the  women  were  too  old  for  the  saddle.  The 
men  never  were. 

It  was,  likewise,  an  everyday  matter  with  our  planter 
that  five  of  his  "black  people"  should  be  down  "sick"  at 
one  time.  The  race  had  then,  as  they  have  to  our  day, 
a  penchant  for  disease.  Every  plantation  had  a  hospital 
ward  that  was  never  empty. 

A  letter  penned  three  years  earlier  than  that  we  have 
just  read: 

"We  are  going  on  bravely  with  our  subscription  for  build- 
ing a  meeting-house.     Yesterday  was  the  first  of  my  turning 

12 


FOREBEARS  AND  PATRON  SAINT 

out  with  subscription-paper.  I  got  162  dollars  subscribed, 
with  a  promise  of  more.  We  have  now  about  1800  dollars 
on  our  subscription-list,  which  sum  increases  at  least  100 
dollars  a  day.  I  hope,  with  a  little  help  that  we  have  reason 
to  expect  from  New  York,  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  begin  the 
work,  which  may  the  Lord  prosper  in  our  hands!" 

The  "meeting-house,"  when  constructed,  was  popularly 
known  as  the  "Pineapple  Church,"  from  the  conical  orna- 
ment topping  the  steeple.  As  Richmond  grew  westward 
and  climbed  up  Shockoe  Hill,  the  First  Presbyterian 
Church  was  swept  up  with  the  congregation  to  another 
site.  The  deserted  building  was  bought  by  the  Episco- 
palians, and  christened  "Christ  Church."  As  long  as  it 
stood  it  was  known  by  the  "old-timers"  as  the  "Old 
Pineapple." 

The  daughters  of  Captain  Sterling's  first  wife  were  Mary 
and  Elizabeth  (the  "Betsy"  of  his  letters).  She  married 
Rev.  Thomas  Lumpkin,  whom  she  met  on  one  of  her  visits  to 
Prince  Edward  County,  where  her  aunt,  Mrs.  James  Morton, 
lived  in  the  vicinity  of  Hampden  Sidney  College.  Her  hus- 
band lived  but  seven  months  from  the  wedding-day,  and 
she  returned  to  Olney  and  the  fostering  care  of  her  father 
and  the  second  mother,  who  was  ever  her  fast  and  tender 
friend.  There,  in  the  house  where  she  was  born,  she  laid 
in  her  stepmother's  arms  a  baby-girl,  born  four  months 
later.  The  posthumous  child  became  the  beloved  "Cousin 
Mary"  of  these  memoirs.  She  had  been  the  petted  darling 
of  the  homestead  five  years  when  her  mother  married  again, 
and  another  clergyman,  whom  I  shall  call  "Mr.  Cams." 
He  was  a  Connecticut  man  who  had  been  a  tutor  in  the 
Olney  household  before  he  took  orders.  For  reasons  which 
will  appear  by -and -by,  I  prefer  to  disguise  his  name. 
Others  in  his  native  New  England  bear  it,  although  he 
left  no  descendants. 

From  my  mother  I  had  the  particulars  of  the  death-scene 

13 


MARION   HARLAND'S   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

in  that  first-floor  " chamber"  in  the  homestead,  when,  on 
a  sultry  August  day  (1820),  "the  longest,  saddest  day  I 
have  ever  known" — said  the  daughter— the  dainty,  deli- 
cate creature  who  was  soul  and  heart  to  the  home  passed 
away  from  earth. 

My  mother  has  told  me  how  the  scent  of  white  jessamine 
flowed  into  the  room  where  grief  was  hushed  to  hearken 
for  the  failing  breath. 

Dr.  Rice's  niece  leaned  over  the  pillow  in  which  the 
girl  of  fourteen  smothered  her  sobs  in  clinging  to  the 
small  hand  so  strangely  cold. 

"She  does  not  breathe!"  the  weeper  heard  the  friend 
whisper.  And  in  a  moment  more,  "Her  heart  does  not 
beat!" 

I  have  dwelt  at  length  upon  the  character  and  life  of 
my  maternal  grandmother  because  of  my  solemn  conviction 
that  I  inherit  what  humble  talent  is  mine  from  her.  I  can- 
not recall  the  time  when  everything  connected  with  her 
did  not  possess  for  me  a  sweet  and  weird  charm ;  when  the 
fancy  that  this  petite  woman,  with  a  heart  and  soul  too 
great  for  her  physique,  was  my  guardian  angel,  did  not  stay 
my  soul  and  renew  my  courage  in  all  good  emprises. 

Her  profiled  portrait  hangs  before  me  as  I  write.  The 
features  are  finely  chiselled  and  high-bred ;  the  expression 
is  sweet.  She  wears  a  close  cap  with  a  lace  border  (she 
was  but  fifty-three  at  death!),  and  a  crimped  frill  stands 
up  about  a  slender  neck. 

My  fantasy  may  be  a  figment  of  the  imagination.  I 
cherish  it  with  a  tenacity  that  tells  me  it  is  more.  That  my 
mother  shared  it  was  proved  by  her  legacy  to  me  of  all  the 
books  and  other  relics  of  her  mother  she  possessed  at  the 
time  of  her  own  decease,  and  the  richer  legacy  of  tales  of 
that  mother's  life  and  words,  her  deeds  of  mercy  and  love, 
which  cannot  but  make  me  a  better  woman. 

The  mortal  remains  of  my  patron  saint  lie  in  the  old 

14 


FOREBEARS    AND    PATRON    SAINT 

family  burying-ground.  War,  in  its  rudest  shape,  swept 
over  the  ancestral  acres  for  two  years.  Trees,  centuries 
old,  were  cut  down;  ruffian  soldiery  camped  upon  and 
tramped  over  desolated  fields ;  outbuildings  were  destroyed, 
and  the  cosey  home  stripped  of  porches  and  wings,  leaving 
it  a  pitiful  shell.  Captain  Sterling  had  fought  at  German- 
town  and  Monmouth,  leading  his  Henrico  troopers  in  the 
train  of  Washington  and  Gates.  And  Northern  cannon 
and  Southern  musketry  jarred  his  bones  after  their  rest  of 
half  a  century  in  the  country  graveyard ! 

Yet — and  this  I  like  to  think  of — the  periwinkle  that 
opens  its  blue  eyes  in  the  early  springtime,  and  the  long- 
stemmed  narcissus,  waving  its  golden  censers  above  the 
tangled  grasses,  spring  from  the  roots  her  dear  hands  buried 
there  one  hundred  years  aso. 


II 

LAFAYETTE — REVOLUTIONARY    TALES — PARENTS'   MARRIAGE 

My  father's  wooing,  carried  on.  now  at  Dr.  Rice's  house 
in  town,  now  at  Olney,  progressed  propitiously.  During  the 
engagement,  Lafayette  visited  Richmond.  My  father  was 
a  member  of  the  once -famous  volunteer  company,  the 
Richmond  Blues,  and  marched  with  it  when  it  was  de- 
tailed as  a  body-guard  for  the  illustrious  guest  of  the 
nation.  My  mother  walked  at  the  head  of  her  class  of 
Sunday-school  children  in  the  procession  of  women  and 
girls  mustered  here  to  do  him  honor,  as  was  done  in 
Trenton  and  other  towns.  She  kept  among  her  treasured 
relics  the  blue-satin  badge,with  Lafayette's  likeness  stamped 
on  it  in  silver,  which  she  wore  upon  her  left  shoulder.  The 
Blues  were  arrayed  in  Continental  uniform,  with  powdered 
hair.  So  completely  was  my  father  metamorphosed  by 
the  costume  that,  when,  at  the  close  of  the  parade,  he  pre- 
sented himself  in  Dr.  Rice's  drawing-room  to  pay  his  de- 
voirs to  his  fiancee,  she  did  not  recognize  him  until  he 
spoke. 

I  have  heard  the  particulars  of  that  day's  pageant  and 
of  Lafayette's  behavior  at  the  public  reception  awarded 
him  by  a  grateful  people,  so  often  that  I  seem  to  have 
been  part  of  the  scene  in  a  former  incarnation.  So  vivid 
were  my  reminiscences  that,  when  a  bride  and  a  guest  at 
Redhill,  the  former  home  of  Patrick  Henry,  I  exchanged 
incidents  and  sayings  with  the  great  orator's  son,  Mr.  John 
Henry,  who  had  been  on  the  Committee  of  Reception  in 

16 


LAFAYETTE 

1824.     In  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own  recollections  of  the 
fete  he  inquired,  naively: 

"Do  you,  then,  remember  Lafayette's  visit  to  America 
so  well?" 

The  general  burst  of  merriment  that  went  around  the 
table,  and  Wirt  Henry's  respectful,  half-distressed— "Why, 
father!  she  wasn't  born!"  brought  both  of  us  back  to  the 
actual  and  present  time  and  place. 

A  large  platform  erected  upon  the  Capitol  Square  was 
filled  with  distinguished  guests  and  officials.  From  this 
Lafayette  reviewed  the  regiments  of  soldiers,  and  here  he 
stood  when  the  schools  of  the  city  sent  up  as  their  repre- 
sentative a  pretty  little  girl,  eight  or  ten  years  of  age,  to 
"speak  a  piece"  written  for  the  occasion  by  a  local  bard. 
The  midget  went  through  the  task  bravely,  but  with  filling 
eyes  and  trembling  limbs.  Her  store  of  factitious  courage 
exhaled  with  the  last  line  reeled  off  from  the  red  lips,  and, 
with  a  scared,  piteous  look  into  the  benign  face  brought 
upon  a  level  with  hers  by  the  table  upon  which  she  had 
been  set,  like  an  animated  puppet,  she  cast  herself  upon 
the  great  man's  decorated  breast  and  wept  sore.  He 
kissed  and  cuddled  and  soothed  her  as  he  might  pet  his 
own  grandchild,  and  not  until  she  could  return  his  smile, 
and  he  had  dried  her  tears  upon  his  laced  handkerchief, 
did  he  transfer  her  to  other  arms. 

Major  James  Morton,  of  "Willington,"  Prince  Edward 
County,  who  married  my  grandmother's  sister  Mary, 
of  Montrose,  had  served  under  Lafayette  and  came  down 
to  Richmond  to  do  honor  to  his  former  chief.  The  Major's 
sobriquet  in  the  army  was  "Solid  Column,"  in  reference  to 
his  "stocky"  build.  Although  he  had  been  on  Washing- 
ton's staff,  he  did  not  expect  to  be  recognized,  after  the 
lapse  of  thirty  years  and  more,  by  the  renowned  French- 
man, who  had  passed  since  their  parting  through  a  bloodier 
revolution  than  that  which  won  freedom  for  America. 

]7 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

General  Lafayette  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  ball- 
room (which  was,  I  think,  in  the  Eagle  Hotel),  where  he 
received  the  crowds  of  citizens  and  military  flocking  to 
pay  their  respects,  when  he  espied  his  whilom  comrade 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng.  Instantly  stepping  out- 
side of  the  cordon  of  aids  and  attendants,  the  Marquis 
held  out  both  hands  with : 

"Vy,  old  SoZeed  Cohmme!    I  am  'appy  to  see  you!" 

A  marvellous  memory  and  a  more  marvellous  facile 
tongue  and  quick  wit  had  the  distinguished  leader  of  free- 
dom-lovers! There  lived  in  Richmond,  until  the  latter 
quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a  stately  gentlewoman 
of  the  very  old  school  whom  we,  of  two  younger  generations, 
regarded  with  prideful  veneration,  and  with  reason.  For 
Lafayette,  who  had  seen  her  dance  at  the  aforesaid  ball, 
had  pronounced  her,  audibly,  "the  handsomest  woman  he 
had  seen  in  America."  Time  had  handled  her  disrespect- 
fully by  the  time  I  heard  the  tale.  But  I  never  questioned 
the  truth  of  it  until  I  found  in  three  other  cities  as  many 
antique  belles  upon  whom  he  had  set  a  seal  of  the  self-same 
pattern. 

We  were  generously  fed  with  authentic  stories  of  Revo- 
lutionary days  in  my  far-off  childhood.  I  have  sat  at 
Major  Morton's  feet  and  learned  of  the  veteran  much  that 
nobody  else  wots  of  in  our  rushing  times.  I  recall  his  em- 
phatic denial  of  the  assertion  made  by  a  Fourth-of-July 
orator  to  the  effect  that  so  grievous  was  the  weight  of  public 
cares  upon  the  Commander-in-Chief;  he  was  never  seen  to 
smile  during  those  eventful  eight  years  of  struggle  and 
suspense. 

"Not  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  sir!"  Thus  old  Solid  Column 
to  the  man  who  reported  the  speech  to  him.  "I  was  with 
him  at  Valley  Forge,  sir,  and  nobody  there  tried  harder  to 
keep  up  the  spirits  of  the  men.  I  recollect,  particularly,  one 
bitter  cold  day,  when  a  dozen  or  so  of  the  officers  were 

18 


REVOLUTIONARY    TALES 

amusing  themselves  and  trying  to  get  warm  by  jumping 
up  and  down,  leaping  high  up  in  the  air  and  trying  to  clap 
their  heels  together  twice  before  they  struck  the  ground 
in  coming  down.  General  Greene  was  sure  he  could  do  it, 
but  he  was  fleshy  and  never  light  on  his  feet,  besides  being 
naturally  sober.  He  was  a  Quaker,  you  know,  and  was 
turned  out  of  meeting  for  joining  the  army.  Well,  on  this 
particular  day  he  took  his  turn  with  the  others  in  jumping. 
And  a  poor  hand  he  was  at  it!  He  couldn't  clap  his  heels 
together  once  on  the  way  down,  let  alone  twice.  By-and-by 
he  made  a  tremendous  effort  and  pitched  over,  head  down 
and  heels  up — flat  on  the  snow.  General  Washington 
was  watching  them  from  where  he  stood  in  his  tent  door, 
and  when  General  Greene  went  down— how  the  General 
laughed !    He  fairly  held  his  sides ! 

'"Ah,  Greene!'  he  called  out.  'You  were  always  a  lub- 
berly fellow!' 

"I  am  not  saying  he  wasn't  one  of  the  gravest  men  I 
ever  saw,  as  a  rule,  but  he  often  smiled,  and  he  did  laugh 
sometimes." 

My  grandfather's  uncle  and  godfather,  Sterling  Smith, 
was  one  of  our  family  Revolutionary  heroes.  My  mother, 
who  had  a  fair  talent  for  mimicry,  had  an  anecdote  of  the 
old  war-horse's  defence  of  Washington  against  the  oft- 
repeated  charge  of  profanity  upon  the  field  of  Monmouth: 

u'He  did  not  swear!'  the  veteran  would  thunder  when 
irreverent  youngsters  retailed  the  slander  in  his  hearing — 
and  with  malice  prepense.  'I  was  close  behind  him — and 
I  can  tell  you,  sir,  we  rode  fast — when  what  should  we  meet, 
running  away,  licketty-split,  from  the  field  of  battle,  with 
the  British  almost  on  their  heels,  but  Gen'ral  Lee  and  his 
men? 

"'Then,  with  that,  says  Gen'ral  Washington,  speaking 
out  loud  and  sharp — says  he,  "Gen'ral  Lee!  in  God's  name, 
sir,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ill-timed  prudence?" 
3  19 


MARION  HARLAND'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

'"  Now,  you  see,  Gen'ral  Lee,  he  was  mighty  high-sperrited 
always,  and  all  of  us  could  hear  what  was  going  on.  So 
he  speaks  up  as  haughty  as  the  Gcn'ral  had  done,  and 
says  he: 

"'"I  know  of  no  one  who  has  more  of  that  most  damn- 
able virtue  than  your  Excellency!" 

" '  So,  you  see,  young  man,  it  was  Gen'ral  Lee  that  swore, 
and  not  Gen'ral  Washington !  Don't  you  ever  let  me  hear 
that  lie  again!' " 

A  Revolutionary  reminiscence  of  my  mother's  (or  mine) 
is  always  renewed  by  the  sight  of  an  Old  Virginia  planta- 
tion-gate, swinging  gratingly  on  ponderous  hinges  and  kept 
shut  by  the  fall  of  a  wooden  latch,  two  yards  long,  into  a 
wooden  hook  set  in  the  gate-post.  This  latch  is  usually 
nearly  half-way  down  the  gate,  and  a  horseman  approach- 
ing it  from  the  outside  must  dismount  to  lift  the  heavy 
bar,  or  be  practised  in  the  trick  of  throwing  himself  well 
over  the  top-rail  to  reach  the  latch  and  hold  it,  while  he 
guides  his  horse  through  the  narrow  opening. 

My  grandfather,  " Captain  Sterling,"  was  at  the  head  of 
a  foraging  -  party  near  Yorktown  when  they  were  chased 
by  British  troopers.  The  Americans  scattered  in  various 
directions  and  escaped  for  the  most  part,  being  familiar 
with  the  country  by-ways  and  cross-roads.  Their  captain 
was  closely  pursued  by  three  troopers  to  a  high  plantation- 
gate.  The  Virginian  opened  it,  without  leaving  the  saddle, 
shot  through,  shut  the  gate,  and  rammed  down  the  latch 
into  the  socket  hard.  The  pursuers  had  to  alight  to  raise 
the  latch,  and  the  delay  gave  the  fugitive  time  to  get 
away. 

My  parents  were  married  at  Olney,  in  Henrico  County, 
January  25,  1825. 

The  bride — not  yet  nineteen  years  of  age — wore  a  soft, 

sheer  India  muslin,  a  veil  falling  to  the  hem  of  the  gown, 

and  white  brocade  slippers  embroidered  with  faint  blue 

20 


PARENTS'    MARRIAGE 

flowers.  The  bridegroom's  suit  was  of  fine  blue  cloth,  with 
real  silver  buttons.  His  feet  were  clad  in  white-silk  stock- 
ings and  low  shoes— "pumps"  as  they  were  called — with 
wrought-silver  buckles.  Those  shoes  and  buckles  were  long 
preserved  in  the  family.  I  do  not  know  what  befell  them 
finally.  The  ceremony  was  performed  by  the  brother-in- 
law  whom  I  have  called,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Cams. 

The  girl  had  laughingly  threatened  that  she  would  not 
promise  to  "obey,"  and  that  a  scene  would  follow  the  use 
of  the  obnoxious  word  in  the  marriage  service.  The  young 
divine,  with  this  in  mind,  or  in  a  fit  of  absent-mindedness 
or  of  stage-fright,  actually  blundered  out,  "Love,  honor — 
and  obey,  in  all  things  consistent!" 

As  may  be  imagined,  the  interpolation  produced  a  lively 
sensation  in  the  well-mannered  company  thronging  the 
homestead,  and  took  rank  as  a  family  legend.  How  many 
times  I  have  heard  my  mother  quote  the  saving  clause  in 
playful  monition  to  my  masterful  father! 

The  bride's  portion,  on  leaving  home  for  the  house  her 
father  had  furnished  for  her  in  town,  was  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  stocks  and  bonds,  and  two  family  servants — a 
husband  and  wife. 

The  following  summer  the  wedded  pair  visited  the  hus- 
band's mother  in  Roxbury,  Massachusetts.  The  journey 
from  Richmond  to  New  York  was  by  a  packet-ship,  and 
lasted  for  two  weeks.  My  poor  little  mother  was  horribly 
seasick  for  a  week  each  way.  To  her  latest  day  she  could  not 
hear  of  "Point  Judith"  without  a  qualm.  She  said  that, 
for  a  time,  the  association  "disgusted  her  with  her  own 
name."  The  mother-in-law,  hale  and  handsome  at  forty- 
five,  had  married,  less  than  a  year  before,  Deacon  John 
Clapp,  a  well-to-do  and  excellent  citizen  of  Roxbury,  and 
installed  the  buxom,  "capable"  widow,  whose  father  was 
now  dead,  as  the  mother  of  four  children  by  a  former 

21 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

marriage,  and  as  mistress  of  a  comfortable  home.  She 
had  not  come  to  him  portionless.  The  sturdy  "  Squire," 
mindful  of  her  filial  devotion  to  him  in  his  declining  years, 
had  left  her  an  equal  share  of  his  estate  with  her  sisters. 
The  brother,  Lewis  Pierce,  had  succeeded  to  the  home- 
stead. 

Mrs.  Clapp  appeared  in  the  door  of  her  pretty  house, 
radiant  in  her  best  black  silk  and  cap  of  fine  lace  (she  never 
wore  any  other),  her  husband  at  her  side,  the  little  girls 
and  the  boy  in  the  background,  as  the  stage  bringing  her 
son  and  new  daughter  from  Boston  stopped  at  the  gate. 

At  their  nearer  approach  she  uttered  an  exclamation, 
flung  up  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  and  ran  back  into  the 
house  for  the  "good  cry"  the  calmest  matron  of  the  day 
considered  obligatory  upon  her  when  state  family  occasions 
demanded  a  show  of  "proper  feeling." 

The  worthy  Deacon  saved  the  situation  from  embarrass- 
ment by  the  heartiness  of  his  welcome  to  the  pair,  neither 
of  whom  he  had  ever  met  before. 

The  second  incident  linked  in  my  mind  with  the  im- 
portant visit  is  of  a  more  serious  complexion.  I  note  it 
upon  Memory's  tablets  as  the  solitary  exhibition  of  aught 
approaching  jealousy  I  ever  saw  in  the  wife,  who  knew 
that  her  lover-husband's  heart  was  all  her  own,  then  and  as 
long  as  it  beat.     I  give  the  story  in  her  own  words : 

"A  Miss  Topliffe  and  her  mother  were  invited  to  take 
tea  with  us  one  evening.  I  had  gathered  from  sundry 
hints — and  eloquent  sighs — from  your  grandmother  that 
she  had  set  her  heart  upon  a  match  between  her  son  and 
this  young  lady.  She  even  went  to  the  length  of  advising 
me  to  pay  particular  attention  to  my  dress  on  this  even- 
ing. '  Miss  Topliffe  was  very  dressy ! '  I  found  this  to  be 
true.  She  was  also  an  airy  personage,  talkative  to  your 
father,  and  supercilious  to  me.    A  few  days  afterward  we 

were  asked  to  tea  at  the  Topliffes.     I  had  a  wretched  even- 

22 


PARENTS'    MARRIAGE 

ing!  Miss  Topliffe  was  rather  handsome  and  very  lively, 
and  she  was  in  high  feather  that  night,  directing  most  of 
her  conversation,  as  before,  to  my  husband.  She  played 
upon  the  piano,  and  sang  love-songs,  and  altogether  made 
herself  the  attraction  of  the  occasion.  I  felt  small  and  in- 
significant and  dull  beside  her,  and  I  could  see  that  she 
amused  your  father  so  much  that  he  did  not  see  how  I 
was  pushed  into  the  background. 

"I  said  never  a  word  of  all  this  to  him,  still  less  to  my 
mother-in-law,  when  she  told  me,  next  day,  that  'every 
one  of  his  friends  had  hoped  my  son  would  marry  Miss 
Topliffe.  The  match  would  have  been  very  agreeable  to 
both  families.  But  it  seems  that  it  was  not  to  be.  The 
ways  of  Providence  are  past  finding  out!' 

"Then  she  sighed,  just  as  she  might  have  mourned  over 
a  bereavement  in  the  family.  I  have  hated  that  girl  ever 
since!" 

"But,  mother,"  I  essayed,  consolingly,  "you  knew  he 
loved  you  best  all  the  time!" 

"Of  course,  child,  but  she  didn't!    There  was  the  rub!" 

I  can  respond  now.  It  always  is  the  bitter  drop  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cup  held  to  the  lips  of  the  wife  who  can- 
not resent  her  lord's  innocent  flirtation  with  "that  other 
woman."  She  knows,  and  he  is  serenely  conscious  of  his 
unshaken  loyalty,  but  the  other  woman  has  her  own  be- 
liefs and  hugs  them. 

In  May,  1826,  my  brother  William  Edwin  was  born  in 
the  cosey  home  on  the  slope  of  Church  Hill  overlooking 
the  "Pineapple  Church."  More  than  forty  years  afterward, 
in  the  last  drive  I  had  with  my  mother,  she  leaned  forward 
in  the  carriage  to  point  out  the  neat  three-story  brick 
dwelling,  now  in  the  heart  of  the  business  section  of  the 
city: 

"That  was  the  house  in  which  I  spent  the  first  three 
years  of  my  married  life!" 

23 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Then,  dreamily  and  softly,  she  related  what  was  the 
peaceful  tenor  of  those  first  years.  Her  father  was  alive, 
and  she  saw  him  often;  her  sister,  "Aunt  Betsy,"  and  her 
children  kept  the  old  home-nest  warm  for  him ;  the  young 
couple  had  hosts  of  friends  in  town  and  country,  and  both 
were  as  deeply  interested,  as  of  yore,  in  church- work. 

Edwin  was  two  years  old  when  a  single  bolt  from  the 
blue  changed  life  for  her. 

My  father's  partner  was  a  personal  and  trusted  friend 
before  they  went  into  business  together.  They  had  kept 
bachelor's  hall  in  partnership  up  to  the  marriage  of  the 
junior  member  of  the  firm.  It  transpired  subsequently 
that  the  senior,  who  was  the  financial  manager  of  the  con- 
cern, had  "cooked"  accounts  and  made  up  false  exhib- 
its of  the  status  of  the  house  to  coax  the  confiding  com- 
rade to  join  his  fortunes  with  his.  The  tale  is  old  and  as 
common  to-day  as  when  my  father  discovered  that  his  own 
savings  and  my  mother's  wedding  -  portion  would  be 
swallowed  up  in  the  payment  of  his  partner's  debts. 

It  was  dark  and  bitter  weather  that  swept  down  upon 
the  peaceful  home  and  blighted  the  ambitions  of  the  rising 
young  merchant. 

The  man  who  had  brought  about  the  reverse  of  fortune 
"took  to  drink."  That  was  likewise  as  common  then  as 
now.  My  father  paid  his  debts,  wound  up  the  business 
honestly,  and  braced  himself  to  begin  the  world  anew. 

In  his  chagrin  at  the  overthrow  of  plans  and  hopes,  he 
somewhat  rashly  accepted  the  proposal  that  the  fresh  be- 
ginning should  be  in  the  country.  Richmond  was  full 
of  disagreeable  associations,  and  country  merchants  were 
making  money. 

Country  "  storekeeping "  was  then  as  honorable  as  the 
calling  of  a  city  merchant.  In  fact,  many  town-houses  had 
rural  branches.  It  was  not  unusual  for  a  city  man  to  set 
up  his  son  in  one  of  these,  thus  controlling  the  trade  of  a 

24 


PARENTS'    MARRIAGE 

larger  territory  than  a  single  house  could  command.  There 
were  no  railways  in  Virginia.  Merchandise  was  carried  all 
over  the  state  in  big,,  covered  wagons,  known  in  Penn- 
sylvania as  "Conestogas."  Long -bodied,  with  hooped 
awnings  of  sail-cloth  lashed  over  the  ark-like  interior  to 
keep  out  dust  and  rain,  and  drawn  by  six  powerful  draught- 
horses,  the  leaders  wearing  sprays  of  bells,  they  were  a 
picturesque  feature  of  country  roads.  Fortunes  were 
amassed  by  the  owners  of  wagon-lines,  the  great  arks  keep- 
ing the  road  winter  and  summer,  and  well  laden  both  ways. 
Planters  had  their  teams  and  wagons  for  hauling  tobacco 
and  other  crops  to  town,  and  bringing  back  stores  of  grocer- 
ies and  dry-goods  at  stated  periods  in  the  spring  and  au- 
tumn; but  between  times  they  were  glad  to  avail  them- 
selves of  the  caravans  for  transportation  of  butter,  eggs, 
poultry,  potatoes,  dried  fruits,  yarn,  cotton,  and  other 
domestic  products  to  the  city,  to  be  sold  or  bartered  for  ar- 
ticles they  could  not  raise. 

In  such  a  wheeled  boat  the  furniture  and  personal  be- 
longings of  our  small  family  were  transported  from  Rich- 
mond to  Dennisville,  Amelia  County,  a  journey  of  two 
dreary  days. 

Husband,  wife,  and  baby  travelled  in  their  own  ba- 
rouche, my  father  acting  as  coachman.  Sam  and  Milly, 
the  colored  servants,  had  preceded  them  by  two  days, 
taking  passage  in  the  Conestoga.  One  November  after- 
noon, the  carriage  drew  up  at  the  future  home  of  the  three 
passengers.  The  dwelling  adjoined  the  store — a  circum- 
stance that  shocked  the  city  woman.  The  joint  structure 
was  of  wood,  mean  in  dimensions  and  inconvenient  in  plan. 
Dead  leaves  were  heaped  about  the  steps.  As  Baby  Edwin 
was  lifted  from  the  carriage  to  the  ground,  he  stood  knee- 
deep  in  the  rustling  leaves,  and  began  to  cry  with  the  cold 
and  the  strangeness  of  it  all.  Not  a  carpet  was  down,  and 
the  efforts  of  the  faithful  servants  to  make  two  rooms  home- 

25 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

like  for  "Miss  Jud'  Anna"  increased  the  forlornness  of  the 
situation  by  reminding  her  of  the  habitation  and  friends 
she  had  left  behind. 

It  was  a  comfortless  winter  and  spring.  I  fancy  it  was 
as  delightless  to  the  husband  as  to  the  wife — just  turning 
her  twenty-first  year,  and  learning  for  the  first  time  in  her 
sheltered  life  the  taste  of  privation.  She  loved  her  church, 
her  father  and  her  sister  and  dear  old  Olney — imchanged 
while  she  dwelt  so  far  apart  from  them  and  it  and  home- 
comforts;  she  was  fond  of  society,  and  in  Richmond  she 
had  her  merry  circle  close  at  hand.  In  Dennisville  she  had, 
literally,  no  neighbors,  and  without  the  walls  of  her  house 
no  palliatives  of  homesickness.  The  cottage  was  small ; 
her  servants  were  trained,  diligent,  and  solicitous  to  spare 
her  toil  and  inconvenience;  her  husband  and  her  distant 
friends  kept  her  supplied  with  books,  and  as  the  period  of 
her  second  confinement  drew  near  she  yielded  more  and 
more  to  natural  lassitude,  spent  the  summer  days  upon 
the  sofa  or  in  bed,  reading,  and  rarely  left  the  house  on 
foot. 

In  direct  consequence,  as  she  ever  afterward  maintained, 
of  this  indolent  mode  of  life,  she  went  down  to  the  gate  of 
death  when  her  first  daughter,  Ann  Almeria  (named  for 
two  grandmothers),  was  born  in  June. 

Providentially,  an  able  specialist  from  another  county 
was  visiting  a  friend  upon  a  neighboring  plantation,  and 
the  local  practitioner,  at  his  wits'  end,  chanced  to  think  of 
him.  A  messenger  was  sent  for  him  in  hot  haste,  and  he 
saved  the  life  of  mother  and  child.  The  baby  was  puny 
and  delicate,  and  was  a  source  of  anxiety  throughout  her 
childhood. 


Ill 


A  COUNTRY  EXILE — DEATH  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN — CHANGE 
OF  HOME — A  FIRESIDE  TRAGEDY  —  "COGITO,  ERGO 
SUM." 

I,  the  third  child  born  to  my  parents,  was  but  a  few 
months  old  when  my  little  brother  was  taken  by  my  father 
to  Roxbury  and  left  there  with  his  grandmother. 

This  singular  and  painful  episode  in  our  family  history 
illustrates  more  clearly  than  could  any  mere  description, 
the  mode  of  thought  and  action  prevalent  at  that  date 
respecting  the  training  and  education  of  children. 

Our  parents  lived  in  an  obscure  country  village,  a  mere 
hamlet,  destitute  of  school  and  social  privileges.  The  few 
families  who,  with  them,  made  up  the  population  of  the 
hamlet  were  their  inferiors  in  breeding  and  education; 
their  children  were  a  lawless,  ill-mannered  set,  and  the 
only  school  near  them  was  what  was  known  as  "an  old 
field  school"  upon  the  outskirts  of  a  plantation  three  miles 
away.  Little  Edwin,  a  bright,  intelligent  laddie,  was 
taught  to  read  and  write  by  his  mother  before  he  was  five. 
He  loved  books;  but  he  was  restless  for  the  lack  of  play- 
fellows of  his  own  age.  His  father  was  bent  upon  giving 
him  all  the  learning  that  could  be  crammed  into  one  small 
head,  and  cast  about  for  opportunities  of  carrying  out  the 
design.  The  grandmother  begged  to  have  one  of  the 
children  for  a  long  visit;  schooling  of  an  advanced  type 
was  to  be  had  within  a  stone's-throw  of  her  door,  and  the 
boy,  if  intrusted  to  her,  would  have  a  mother's  care.     My 

27 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

father  urged  the  measure  upon  his  weaker-willed  wife.  She 
opposed  it  less  and  less  strenuously  until  the  boy  came  in 
from  the  street  one  day  with  an  oath  in  his  mouth  he  had 
learned  from  one  of  the  Dennisville  boys. 

"That  night,  upon  my  knees,  and  with  a  breaking  heart, 
I  consented  to  let  him  go  North/'  the  mother  told  me, 
falteringly.  when  I  was  a  woman  grown. 

The  father  hurried  him  off  within  the  week — I  imagine 
lest  she  might  change  her  mind — and  remained  in  Rox- 
bury  three  weeks  with  him  to  accustom  him  to  his  new 
abode.  His  letters  written  during  this  absence  are  cheer- 
ful—  I  am  disposed  to  say,  "obstinately  optimistic."  I 
detect,  too,  a  touch  of  diplomacy  in  the  remarks  dropped 
here  and  there,  as  to  his  mortification  at  finding  Edwin 
so  "backward  in  his  education  by  comparison  with  other 
children  of  his  age/'  and  the  bright  prospects  opening  for 
his  future  in  the  "excellent  school  of  which  everybody 
speaks  highly." 

The  day  before  his  father  left  him,  Edwin  accompanied 
him  to  Boston,  and  books  were  bought  for  his  sister,  with 
a  pretty  gift  for  his  mother.  He  had  grown  quite  fond 
of  his  grandmother,  so  the  father  reported  when  he  arrived 
at  home,  and  the  kind-hearted  "Deacon  was  as  good  as 
another  boy." 

Letters  came  with  gratifying  regularity — fortnightly — 
from  Roxbury.  The  boy  was  going  to  school  and  making 
amends  for  his  "backwardness"  by  diligence  and  pro- 
ficiency. I  have  laid  away  in  our  family  Bible  quaintly 
worded  "Rewards  of  Merit  "—printed  forms  upon  paper 
which  crackles  under  the  fingers  that  unfold  it — testifying  to 
perfect  recitations  and  good  behavior.  The  boy's  name 
and  the  testimonials  are  filled  in  by  his  woman  teacher  in 
legible,  ladylike  script.  The  fortnightly  epistles  told  of  the 
child's  health  and  "nice"  behavior.  I  fancy  that  more 
stress  was  laid  upon  the  last  item  by  his  grandmother  than 

2S 


DEATH    OF    THE    FIRST-BORN 

upon  the  first.  My  father  expressed  himself  as  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  the  experiment.  The  mother  mourned 
secretly  for  the  merry  voice  and  bonny  face  of  her  darling. 
At  the  end  of  three  months  the  longing  leaped  the  bounds 
of  wifely  submission,  and  she  won  from  her  husband  the 
admission  that  home  was  not  home  without  his  boy. 
They  would  go  in  company  to  Roxbury  next  summer  and 
bring  him  back  with  them.  If  he  were  to  be  sent  from 
home  to  school,  they  would  commit  him  to  the  Olney  or 
Richmond  kinspeople.  Roxbury  was  a  cruel  distance  from 
central  Virginia. 

A  month  later  two  letters  were  brought  to  my  father's 
counting-room  with  the  Richmond  mail.  One  told  of  Ed- 
win's dangerous  illness,  the  second  of  his  death  and  burial. 
His  malady — brain -fever — was  set  down  by  the  grand- 
mother to  "the  visitation  of  God.''  In  view  of  his  rapid 
progress  in  learning,  and  the  strict  discipline  of  the  house- 
hold in  which  he  studied  the  lessons  to  be  recited  on  the 
morrow,  and  without  a  blunder,  we  may  hold  a  different 
opinion,  and  one  that  exonerates  the  Deity  of  direct  in- 
terference in  the  work. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  precious  five-year-old  had  died  so 
far  from  his  mother's  arms  that,  had  she  set  out  immediate- 
ly upon  receipt  of  the  news  of  his  illness,  a  month  would 
have  elapsed  between  the  departure  of  the  letter  from 
Roxbury  and  her  arrival  there,  if  she  had  travelled  day 
and  night.     His  earthly  education  was  finished. 

The  stricken  father,  staring  at  the  brace  of  fatal  letters — 
couched,  you  may  be  sure,  in  duly  pietistic  phrase  and  inter- 
larded with  Scripture  texts — had  the  terrible  task  of  break- 
ing the  news  to  the  mother  whose  happy  dream  and  talk 
were  all  of  "when  we  go  North  for  our  boy." 

He  carried  the  letters  home.  His  wife  was  not  in  "'the 
chamber,"  where  a  colored  nurse — another  family  servant 
— was  in  charge  of  the  two  little  girls.     Hearing  her  foot- 

29 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

steps  approaching  presently,  the  strong  man's  heart  failed 
him  suddenly.  He  retreated  behind  the  open  door,  act- 
ually afraid  to  face  the  gentle  woman  to  whom  his  will 
was  law. 

Suspecting  a  practical  joke,  my  light-hearted  mother 
pulled  back  the  door,  the  knob  of  which  he  had  clutched 
in  his  desperate  misery,  saw  his  face  and  the  letters  in  his 
hand,  and  fell  in  a  dead  faint  at  his  feet. 

In  the  summer  of  1863  I  visited  the  little  grave  with  my 
husband.  Civil  War  raged  like  a  sea  of  blood  between 
North  and  South.  The  parents  had  not  seen  Edwin's  last 
resting-place  in  several  years.  I  knew  the  way  to  the 
secluded  corner  of  the  old  Dorchester  Cemetery  where, 
beside  the  kind  old  step-grandfather  who  loved  the  boy 
while  living,  lies  the  first-born  of  our  Virginia  home.  The 
stone  is  inscribed  with  his  name  and  the  names  of  his 
parents,  the  dates  of  his  birth  and  death,  and  below  these: 

"Our  trust  is  in  the  Lord." 

None  of  our  friends  in  Roxbury  and  Dorchester  knew  so 
much  as  the  child's  name.  The  headstone  leaned  one  way, 
the  footstone  another,  and  a  desolate  hollow,  telling  of 
total  neglect,  lay  between.  Yet  right  above  the  heart  of 
the  forgotten  boy  was  a  tumbler  of  white  flowers,  still 
fresh.  By  whom  left  we  never  knew,  although  we  made 
many  inquiries.  Dr.  Terhune  had  the  grave  remounded 
and  turfed,  the  stones  cleaned  and  set  upright,  and  at 
the  second  visit  that  assured  us  this  was  done,  we  covered 
the  grave  with  flowers. 

In  my  next  "  flag-of-truce "  letter,  I  wrote  to  let  his 
mother  know  what  we  had  seen  and  done,  and  of  the 
bunch  of  white  flowers  left  by  the  nameless  friend. 

Our  grandmother  treasured  and  sent  home  to  his  mother, 
after  a  while,  the  child's  clothing  and  every  toy  and  book 
that  had  been  his,  even  a  hard  cracker  bearing  the  im- 

30 


CHANGE    OF    HOME 

print  of  the  tiny  teeth  he  was  too  weak  to  set  firmly  in 
the  biscuit. 

The  preservation  of  the  odd  relic  was  the  only  touch  of 
poetry  I  ever  discerned  in  the  granite  nature  of  my  father's 
mother. 

With  him  the  sorrow  for  his  boy  lasted  with  his  life. 
Thirty  years  afterward  I  heard  Edwin's  name  from  his  lips 
for  the  first  time. 

"No  other  child  has  ever  been  to  me  what  he  was!"  he 
said.     "And  the  pain  is  as  keen  now  as  it  was  then." 

Then  he  arose  and  began  pacing  the  room,  as  was  his 
habit  when  strongly  moved,  hands  behind  his  back,  head 
depressed,  and  lips  closely  folded. 

He  loved  the  child  so  passing  well  that  he  could  sacri- 
fice his  own  joy  in  his  companionship  to  what  he  believed 
to  be  the  child's  better  good. 

After  this  bereavement  the  Dennisville  life  became  in- 
supportably  sad.  I  think  it  was  more  in  consequence  of 
this  than  for  pecuniary  profit  that  my  father,  the  next 
year,  removed  his  family  to  Lunenburg. 

My  mother  could  never  speak  of  her  residence  in  Ame- 
lia County  without  a  pale  shudder.  Yet  that  it  was  not 
wasted  time,  I  have  evidences  from  other  sources. 

Part  of  a  letter  written  to  her  at  Olney  in  the  early 
spring  succeeding  the  removal  to  Dennisville  shows  with 
what  cheerful  courage  my  father  set  about  church  and 
neighborhood  work.  Next  to  his  home  and  the  loved  ones 
gathered  there,  the  church  of  which  he  was  a  loyal  son 
had  his  best  energies  and  warmest  thought. 

"You  cannot  imagine  how  solitary  I  am.  I  could  not  have 
thought  that  the  absence  of  my  clear  wife  and  child  would 
create  so  great  a  vacuum  in  my  life.  I  do  not  wish  to  hasten 
your  return  from  your  friends,  but  you  may  rest  assured  that 
I  shall  be  heartily  glad  when  you  come  home.  I  got  home  on 
Sunday  morning,  and  found  Mr.  White  here  in  quiet  possession 

31 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  the  house.  His  wife  did  not  come  with  him  on  account  of 
the  bad  roads. 

"He  gave  us  for  a  text  John  xv :  25 : — ' They  hated  me  with- 
out a  cause.' 

"The  congregation  was  nearly,  if  not  quite,  as  large  as 
when  he  preached  the  first  time,  and  very  attentive.  Many 
express  a  wish  to  hear  him  again.  He  gave  notice  that 
he  would  on  the  third  Sunday  in  March  preach,  and  also  men- 
tioned that  an  effort  would  be  made  to  establish  a  Sabbath- 
school  and  Bible-class.  It  is  really  encouraging  to  see  how 
readily  many  of  the  people  fall  into  the  measure,  without  go- 
ing from  home,  too.  Fathers  have  given  their  names  to  me, 
wishing  to  send  their  children,  and  several  others  I  have  heard 
of  who  appear  anxious  to  embrace  the  opportunity.  Doctor 
Shore  and  Mr.  White  dined  with  me  yesterday,  and  quite  un- 
expectedly I  had  the  pleasure  of  Doctor  Shore,  Mr.  Bland,  and 
Mr.  Lancaster  at  dinner  with  me  to-day.  So  you  see  that  I  now 
get  the  society  of  all  the  good  folks  while  you  are  away.  But 
do  not  be  jealous,  for  DoctorS.  had  not  heard  of  your  absence, 
and  apologized  for  Mrs.  Shore  and  Mrs.  Hardy  not  calling  on 
you,  saying  that  he  considered  it  as  his  and  their  duty  so 
to  do,  and  they  would  not  be  so  remiss  for  the  future.  You 
cannot  imagine  what  a  rain  we  have  had  for  the  last  twelve 
hours,  accompanied  with  thunder  and  lightning.  All  the 
creeks  about  us  are  impassable,  so  that  we  live,  I  may  say, 
in  a  corner  with  but  one  way  to  get  out  without  swimming, 
and  that  is  to  go  to  Prince  Edward.  We  can  get  there  when 
we  can  go  nowhere  else.  I  have  got  a  hen-house  full  of  eggs, 
and  have  been  working  right  hard  to-day  to  make  the  hens 
and  an  old  Muscovy  set  on  them,  but  they  are  obstinate 
things,  and  will  have  their  own  way,  so  I  have  given  it  up  as 
a  bad  job.  Don't  forget  to  ask  Mr.  Cams  for  some  of  the  big 
pumpkin  seed.  By-the-by,  Mrs.  Branch  had  found*  out  be- 
fore I  returned  who  I  was,  where  I  lived,  what  I  did,  and,  in 
fact,  knew  almost  as  much  about  me  as  I  did  myself.  These 
wagoners  are  great  telltales!  To-morrow  I  pen  a  pig  for  you. 
The  calves  and  cows  are  in  good  order.  I  will  try  to  have 
some  fresh  butter  for  you.     Bose  is  in  excellent  health,  and  the 

32 


A    FIRESIDE    TRAGEDY 

rats  are  as  plentiful  as  ever.  You  must  kiss  our  little  one 
for  me,  and  take  thousands  for  yourself.  I  again  repeat  that 
time  hangs  heavy  on  my  hands  when  you  are  away,  but  I 
would  not  be  so  selfish  as  to  debar  you  the  pleasure  of  a  few 
days'  society  with  those  who  are  dear  to  us  both." 

The  "Mr.  White"  mentioned  in  this  letter  became  an 
eminent  clergyman  as  Rev.  William  Spotswood  White, 
D.D.  The  services  described  here  were  held  in  a  private 
house  in  Dennisville,  for  the  nearest  place  of  regular  wor- 
ship was  some  miles  away  in  Nottoway  County.  In  this 
church  my  father  was  ordained  an  elder.  He  was,  also, 
superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  established  through 
his  personal  influence.  The  pupils  and  teachers  were  col- 
lected from  the  surrounding  plantations,  and  the  new- 
comer to  the  sleepy  neighborhood  made  life-long  friends 
with  the  "best  people"  of  the  region. 

Quite  unconsciously,  he  gives  us,  in  this  resume  of  every- 
day happenings,  glimpses  into  a  life  at  once  primitive  and 
refined.  The  roads  are  all  afloat,  but  three  men  draw  rein 
at  his  door  on  one  day,  and  dine  with  him  while  his  wife 
is  away — "an  unexpected  pleasure."  He  busies  himself 
with  chickens,  eggs,  and  pigs,  cows  and  calves,  reports  the 
health  of  the  house-dog,  the  promise  of  Sabbath-school  and 
church,  and  runs  the  only  store  in  that  part  of  the  county 
successfully.  And  this  was  the  first  experience  of  country 
life  for  the  city-bred  man  and  merchant! 

The  Lunenburg  home  was  not  even  a  "ville."  A  house 
that  had  been  a  rural  inn,  and,  across  the  road,  a  hundred 
yards  down  its  irregular  length,  "the  store,"  formed,  with 
the  usual  outbuildings,  the  small  settlement  three  days 
distant  from  Richmond.  My  father  and  mother  boarded 
for  a  few  months  with  Captain  and  Mrs.  Bragg,  who  lived 
in  the  whilom  "House  of  Entertainment"  on  the  roadside. 

I  was  but  two  years  old  when  there  occurred  a  calamity, 

33 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  particulars  of  which  I  have  heard  so  often  that  I  seem 
to  recollect  them  for  myself: 

One  cold  winter  day  my  mother  left  her  little  daughters 
with  their  toys  at  the  end  of  the  large  bedroom  most  re- 
mote from  a  roaring  wood-fire ;  told  them  not  to  go  nearer 
to  it,  and  took  her  work  down  to  Mrs.  Bragg's  chamber. 
The  gentle  hostess  had  a  baby  but  a  week  old,  and  her 
boarder's  call  was  one  of  neighborly  kindness.  On  the 
stairs  she  met  Lucy  Bragg,  a  child  about  my  sister's  age — 
five — a  pretty,  merry  baby,  and  our  only  playfellow.  My 
mother's  discipline  was  never  harsh.  It  was  ever  effectual, 
for  we  seldom  disobeyed  her.  She  stopped  Lucy  on  the 
stairs  to  warn  her  not  to  play  near  the  fire. 

AVe  played  happily  together  for  an  hour  or  two,  before 
Lucy  complained  of  being  cold  and  went  up  to  the  fire- 
place ;  stood  there  for  a  moment,  her  back  to  the  fire  and 
hands  behind  her,  prattling  with  the  children  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  Suddenly  she  screamed  and  darted  past 
us,  her  clothing  on  fire. 

My  mother  heard  the  shrieks  from  the  distant  "chamber" 
on  the  ground  floor,  and,  without  arousing  the  sleeping 
patient,  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  room  and  ran  with  all 
her  might  toward  the  stairs.  Half-way  up  she  met  a  child 
wrapped  in  flames,  which  she  was  beating  with  her  poor 
little  hands  while  she  shrieked  for  help.  My  mother  flashed 
by  her,  escaping  harm  on  the  narrow  stairway  as  by  a 
miracle.  One  glance  into  her  own  room  showed  her  that 
her  girls  were  safe ;  she  tore  a  blanket  from  the  bed  and  was 
back  so  quickly  that  she  overtook  the  burning  figure  on 
the  lowermost  stair,  and  wrapped  her  in  the  blanket. 
Captain  Bragg  appeared  below  at  the  same  instant,  wound 
the  cover  about  the  frantic,  struggling  creature,  and  ex- 
tinguished the  fire. 

Little  Lucy  died  that  night.  Her  mother  and  the  baby 
followed  her  to  the  grave  in  a  week. 

34 


"COGITO,   ERGO    SUM" 

The  tragedy  broke  up  the  Bragg  household,  and  we 
found  a  temporary  home  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Andrew 
McQuie  (pronounced  "McWay"),  two  miles  from  the  store. 
The  McQuies  were  prosperous  planters,  and  the  intimacy 
begun  that  winter  continued  as  long  as  the  older  mem- 
bers of  the  clan  lived.  We  girls  learned  to  call  her  "Grand- 
ma," and  never  remitted  the  title  and  the  affection  that 
prompted  it. 

Our  apartments  were  in  the  "Office,"  a  detached  brick 
building  in  the  corner  of  the  house-yard — a  common  ap- 
pendage to  most  plantation-homesteads.  At  some  period 
of  the  family  history  a  father  or  son  of  the  house  had  prac- 
tised law  or  medicine,  and  used  the  "office"  in  that  capac- 
ity.    It  never  lost  the  name. 

And  here,  on  a  windy  wintry  evening,  I  awoke  to  the 
consciousness  of  my  Individuality. 

I  do  not  know  how  better  to  express  the  earliest  memory 
I  have  of  being — and  thinking.  It  was  a  living  demon- 
stration of  the  great  truth  shallow  thinkers  never  com- 
prehend— "Cogito,  ergo  sum." 

I  had  fallen  asleep,  tired  with  play,  and  lulled  into 
drowsiness  by  the  falling  rain  outside.  I  lay  among  the 
pillows  of  the  trundle-bed  at  the  back  of  the  room,  and, 
awakening  with  a  cry  of  fright  at  finding  myself,  as  I 
thought,  alone,  was  answered  by  my  mother's  voice. 

She  sat  by  the  fire  in  a  low  rocking-chair,  and,  guided 
by  her  reassuring  tone,  I  tumbled  out  of  bed  and  ran  tow- 
ard her.  In  the  area  lighted  by  the  burning  logs,  I  saw 
her,  as  in  another  sphere.  To  this  hour  I  recall  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  thinking  of  something  besides  my- 
self. Baby  as  I  was,  I  felt  vaguely  that  she  was  not  "all 
there,"  even  when  she  took  me  upon  her  lap.  When  she 
said,  kindly  and  in  her  own  sweet  way,  "Did  my  little  girl 
think  her  mother  had  left  her  alone  in  the  dark?"  she  did 
not  withdraw  her  eyes  from  the  ruddy  fire. 

4  35 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Something  warned  me  not  to  speak  again.  I  leaned  my 
head  against  her  shoulder,  and  we  studied  the  fire  together. 
Did  the  intensity  of  her  musing  stir  my  dormant  soul  into 
life?  I  cannot  say.  Only  that  1  date  my  conscious  per- 
sonal existence  from  that  mystic  hour.  The  picture  is 
before  me  to-night,  as  I  hear  my  daughter  singing  her  boy 
to  sleep  in  the  next  room,  and  the  lake-wind  rattles  the 
vines  about  my  window.  The  sough  of  the  heated  air 
over  the  brands  and  embers ;  the  slow  motion  of  the  rocker 
as  we  swayed  to  and  fro;  my  mother's  thoughtful  silence, 
and  my  small  self,  awed  into  speechlessness  by  the  new 
thing  that  had  come  to  me;  my  pulpy  brain  interfused 
with  the  knowledge  that  I  was  a  thinking  entity,  and 
unable  to  grapple  with  the  revelation — all  this  is  as  dis- 
tinct as  things  of  yesternight. 

I  have  heard  but  one  experience  that  resembled  this 
supreme  moment  of  my  infancy.  My  best-beloved  tutor 
related  to  me  when  I  was  twelve  years  old  that  he  "recol- 
lected when  he  began  to  think."  The  sensation,  he  said, 
was  as  if  he  were  talking  to  himself  and  could  not  stop. 
I  had  that  day  heard  the  epigrammatic  "Cogito,  ergo  sum," 
and  I  told  of  my  awakening  from  a  mere  animal  to  spiritual 
and  intellectual  life. 

I  do  not  comprehend  the  mystery  better  now  than  on 
that  never-to-be-forgotten  evening.  I  but  know  that  the 
miracle  ivas! 


IV 


A    BERSERKER    RAGE — A    FRIGHT — THE    WESTERN    FEVER 

MONTROSE — A   MOTHER   REGAINED 

Up  to  this  point  of  my  story,  what  I  have  written  is 
hearsay.  With  the  awakening  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 
my  real  reminiscences  begin. 

The  next  vivid  impression  upon  my  plastic  memory  has 
its  setting  in  the  McQuie  yard.  My  mother  had  been  to 
Richmond  on  a  visit  and  brought  back,  as  a  present  from 
a  woman  who  was  said  to  be  "good,"  a  doll  for  my  sister. 
Perhaps  she  considered  me  too  young  to  be  intrusted  with 
the  keeping  of  the  rare  creation  of  wax  and  real  hair.  Per- 
haps she  did  not  recollect  my  existence.  In  either  case,  as 
I  promptly  settled  within  myself,  she  was  not  the  good 
woman  of  my  mother's  painting. 

Not  that  I  had  ever  cared  for  "dead  dolls."  When  I 
could  just  put  the  wish  into  words,  my  craving  was  for 
a  "real,  live,  shin  baby  that  could  laugh  and  talk."  But 
this  specimen  was  so  nearly  alive  that  it  opened  its  eyes 
when  one  pulled  a  wire  concealed  by  the  satin  petticoat, 
and  shut  them  at  another  tweak.  Moreover,  the  (alleged) 
good  woman  in  the  beautiful  city  I  heard  as  much  of  as 
of  heaven,  had  sent  my  sister  the  gift,  and  none  to  me. 
Furthermore,  and  worst  of  all,  my  sister  paraded  the  gift 
before  my  angry,  miserable  eyes,  and,  out  of  my  mother's 
hearing,  taunted  me  with  the  evident  fact  that  "nobody 
cared  for  a  little  girl  whose  hands  were  dirty  and  whose 
hair  was  never  smooth."     I  was  barely  three  years  old. 

37 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

My  sister  was  a  prodigy  of  learning  in  the  estimation  of 
our  acquaintances,  and  nearer  six  than  five.  I  took  in 
the  case  with  extraordinary  clearness  of  judgment  and 
soreness  of  heart,  and  meditated  revenge. 

Watching  an  opportunity  when  mother,  nurse,  and  sister 
were  out  of  the  way,  I  stole  into  the  office-cottage,  pos- 
sessed myself  of  the  hated  puppet,  who  had  been  put  into 
my  bed  for  an  afternoon  nap — lying  there  for  all  the  world 
like  "a  sure-enough  baby,7'  with  her  eyes  fast  shut — and 
bore  her  off  behind  the  house.  There  I  stripped  off  her  gay 
attire ;  twisted  a  string  about  her  neck ;  contrived — nobody 
could  ever  tell  how — to  fasten  one  end  of  the  cord  to  the 
lowest  bough  of  a  peach-tree,  armed  myself  with  a  stout 
switch,  and  lashed  every  grain  of  sawdust  out  of  the 
dangling  effigy. 

I  recollect  that  my  sister,  rushing  to  the  scene  of  action, 
dared  not  approach  the  fury  into  which  I  had  been  trans- 
formed, but  stood  aloof,  screaming  and  wringing  her  hands. 
I  have  no  recollection  of  my  mother's  interference,  or  of 
the  chastisement  which,  I  have  been  told,  was  inflicted  with 
the  self-same  rod  that  had  mangled  the  detested  doll  into 
a  shapeless  rag.  In  my  berserker  rage  I  probably  did  not 
hear  scolding  or  feel  stripes. 

My  father  rented  the  house  vacated  by  the  Braggs,  find- 
ing the  daily  ride  to  and  from  the  store  too  long  in  the 
short  winter  days.  Soon  after  our  return  to  our  old  quar- 
ters, another  boy  was  born  to  the  bereaved  parents — my 
brother  Herbert.  He  was  but  a  few  days  old  when  "  Grand- 
ma" McQuie  and  her  two  daughters  called  to  inquire  after 
mother  and  child,  and  carried  me  off  with  them,  I  suppose 
to  get  me  out  of  the  way  of  nurse  and  mother.  My  whole 
body  was  a-tingle  with  excitement  when  I  found  myself 
snugly  tucked  up  in  shawls  on  the  back  seat  of  the  roomy 
chariot,  beside  the  dear  old  lady,  and  rolling  down  the  road. 
We  had  not  gone  far  before  she  untied  and  took  off  my 


A    FRIGHT 

bonnet,  and  tied  over  my  curly  head  a  great  red  bandanna 
handkerchief  "to  keep  your  ears  warm."  The  warm  color 
and  the  delicious  cosiness  of  the  covering  put  an  idea  into 
my  head.  I  had  heard  the  story  of  Red  Riding  Hood  from 
my  colored  nurse,  and  I  had  already  the  trick  of  "playing 
ladies,"  as  I  named  the  story-making  that  has  been  my 
trade  ever  since.  I  was  Red  Riding  Hood,  and  my  grand- 
mother was  taking  me  away  from  the  wolf.  The  woods  we 
presently  entered  were  full  of  fairies.  They  swung  from 
the  little  branches  of  shrubs  that  brushed  the  carriage- 
windows,  and  peeped  at  me  from  behind  the  boles  of  oak 
and  hickory,  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  sweetbrier  sprays 
writhing  in  the  winter  wind.  One  and  all,  they  did  obei- 
sance to  me  as  I  drove  in  my  state  coach  through  the 
forest  aisles.  I  nodded  back  industriously,  and  would 
have  kissed  my  hand  to  them  had  not  Grandma  McQuie 
told  me  to  keep  it  under  the  shawl. 

My  companions  in  the  carriage  paid  no  attention  to  my 
smiles  and  antics.  They  were  busy  talking  of  their  own 
affairs,  and  probably  did  not  give  the  silent  child  a  look 
or  thought.  A  word  or  a  curious  glance  would  have  spoiled 
the  glorious  fun  that  lasted  until  I  was  lifted  in  Mr.  McQuie's 
arms  at  his  hospitable  door. 

I  never  spoke  of  the  "make  believe."  What  child 
does? 

The  Bragg  house  was  roomy  and  rambling,  and  nobody 
troubled  herself  to  look  after  me  when  I  would  steal  away 
alone  to  the  stairs  leading  to  the  room  we  had  occupied 
while  Mrs.  Bragg  and  Lucy  were  alive,  and  sit  on  the  steps 
which  still  bore  the  stains  of  the  scorching  flames  that  had 
licked  up  poor  Lucy's  life,  and  dreaming  over  the  details 
as  I  had  had  them,  over  and  over,  from  my  sister  and 
'Lizabeth,  the  colored  girl  whose  life-work  was  to  "look 
after"  us  three. 

Just  opposite  the  door  of  our  old  room  was  one  that 

39 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  always  closed  and  locked  and  bolted.  It  shared  in 
the  ghoul-like  interest  I  gave  to  the  scorched  stairs,  and 
there  was  reason  for  this.  The  furniture  of  Mrs.  Bragg 's 
chamber  was  stored  here.  Through  a  wide  keyhole  I 
could  espy  the  corner  of  a  bureau,  and  all  of  a  Boston 
rocker,  cushioned  and  valanced  with  dark-red  calico.  This, 
I  assumed  in  the  fancies  which  were  more  real  than  what 
I  beheld  with  the  bodily  eyes,  had  been  the  favorite  seat 
of  the  dead  woman. 

One  wild  March  day,  when  the  rain  thundered  upon  the 
roof  over  my  head,  and  the  staircase  and  hall  echoed  with 
sighs  and  whistlings,  my  eye,  glued  to  the  awful  keyhole, 
saw  the  chair  begin  to  rock!  Slowly  and  slightly;  but  it 
actually  swayed  back  and  forth,  and,  to  the  horrified  fancy 
of  the  credulous  infant  without,  there  grew  into  view  a 
shadowy  form — a  pale  lady  about  whose  slight  figure  flowed 
a  misty  robe,  and  who  held  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

One  long,  wild  look  sufficed  to  show  me  this.  Then  I 
sped  down  the  stairs  like  a  lapwing,  and  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  sat  'Lizabeth  holding  my  baby  brother.  I 
rushed  up  to  her  and  babbled  my  story  in  panting  in- 
coherence. I  had  seen  a  ghost  sitting  in  Mrs.  Bragg's 
rocking-chair,  getting  a  baby  to  sleep! 

The  exemplary  nurse  was  adequate  to  the  occasion 
thrust  suddenly  upon  her.  Without  waiting  to  draw 
breath,  she  gave  me  the  lie  direct,  and  warned  me  that 
"Mistis  wouldn't  stan'  no  sech  dreadful  stories.  Ef  so  be 
you  wan'  a  whippin'  sech  as  you  never  had  befo'  in  all  yer 
born  days,  you  jes'  better  run  into  the  chamber  an'  tell 
her  what  you  done  tole  me,  Miss  Firginny!" 

I  did  not  go.  Suppression  of  the  awful  truth  was  pref- 
erable to  the  certainty  of  a  chastisement.  Our  parents 
were  strict  in  their  prohibition  of  all  bugaboo  and  ghost 
stories.  That  may  have  been  the  reason  we  heard  so  man)'. 
It  certainly  accounts  for  our  reticence  on  subjects  that 

40 


A    FRIGHT 

crammed  our  brains  with  fancies  and  chilled  the  marrow 
in  our  young  bones. 

The  wind,  finding  its  way  between  sashes  and  under  the 
ill-fitting  doors  of  the  old  house,  no  doubt  set  the  chair  in 
motion.  My  heated  imagination  did  the  rest.  Five  min- 
utes' talk  with  my  mother  or  one  hearty  laugh  from  my 
father  would  have  laid  the  spectre.  She  loomed  up  more 
and  more  distinctly  before  my  mental  vision  because  I 
kept  the  awesome  experience  locked  within  my  own  heav- 
ing heart. 

Another  thrilling  incident,  framed  in  memory  as  a  fade- 
less fresco  upon  the  wall  of  a  locked  temple,  is  the  Bragg 
burial-lot,  in  which  lay  Lucy,  her  mother  and  baby- 
brother,  and  Mrs.  Moore,  Mrs.  Bragg's  mother,  who  had 
followed  her  daughter  to  ihe  grave  a  few  weeks  before  we 
returned  to  the  house.  A  low  brick  wall  enclosed  the  plot, 
which  was  overgrown  with  negiected  shrubbery  and  briers. 
On  a  certain  day  I  set  my  small  head  like  a  flint  upon  the 
execution  of  no  less  an  enterprise  \jhan  a  visit  to  the  for- 
bidden ground  and  a  peep  through  the  gates  at  the  graves! 
I  had  never  seen  one.  I  do  not  know  what  I  expected  to 
behold  of  raw-head-and-bloody-bones  horror.  But  'Liza- 
beth's  hobgoblin  and  vampire  recitals  had  enkindled  within 
me  a  burning  curiosity  to  inspect  a  charnel-house.  Visions 
of  skeletons  lying  on  the  bare  ground,  of  hovering  spectres 
and  nameless  Udolphian  marvels,  wrought  me  up  to  the 
expedition.  The  graveyard  was  a  long  way  off  —  quite 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  the  walk  thither  was 
breast-high  in  dead  weeds.  I  buffeted  them  valiantly, 
striding  ahead  of  my  companions — my  protesting  sister, 
'Lizabeth,  and  the  baby  borne  upon  her  hip  —  and  was 
so  near  the  goal  that  a  few  minutes  would  show  me 
all  there  was  to  see,  when  I  espied  Something  gliding 
along  the  top  of  the  wall!  Something  that  was  white 
and   stealthy ;    something    that    moved    without    sound, 

41 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  that  wore  projecting  ribbon  bows  upon  a  snowy 
head ! 

'Lizabeth  emitted  a  bloodcurdling  shriek: 

"Ole  Mis'  Moore!  Sure's  you  born!  Don'  you  see  her 
cap  on  her  hade?" 

We  fled,  helter-skelter,  as  for  our  four  lives,  and  never 
stopped  to  look  behind  us. 

The  apparition  did  resemble  the  crown  of  a  mob-cap 
with  knots  of  black  ribbons  at  the  sides.  I  saw,  almost 
as  plainly  as  I  had  beheld  her  daughter's  wraith,  the  form 
hidden  by  the  wall,  picking  her  way  over  the  brier-grown 
enclosure. 

I  do  not  know  how  much  longer  we  lived  at  the  Bragg 
house.  Sure  am  I  that  I  never  paid  a  second  call  upon  the 
denizens  of  the  half-acre  defended  by  the  brick  wall. 

Years  afterward,  my  mother  told  me  the  true  tale  of  the 
old  lady's  pet  cat  that  would  not  leave  her  mistress's  grave, 
having  followed  in  the  funeral  train  down  the  long  alley, 
and  seen  the  coffin  laid  in  the  ground  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral.  The  dumb  beast  haimted  the  burying-ground 
ever  after,  living  on  birds  and  field-mice,  and  starved  to 
death  in  a  deep  snow  that  lay  long  on  the  frozen  ground 
the  second  winter  of  her  watch. 

Why  the  four-year-old  child  did  not  lose  what  wits  were 
hers  by  nature,  or  become  a  nerveless  coward  for  the  rest 
of  her  days,  under  the  stress  of  influences  never  suspected 
by  her  parents,  was  due,  probably,  to  a  strain  of  physical 
and  mental  hardihood  inherited  from  a  dauntless  father. 

It  must  have  been  shortly  after  this  incident  that,  com- 
ing into  the  dining-room  one  morning,  I  heard  my  mother 
say  to  my  father: 

"My  dear,  Frank  has  the  Western  fever!" 

Frank  Wilson,  a  nice  boy,  the  son  of  a  neighboring 
planter,  was  my  father's  bookkeeper  and  an  inmate  of  our 
house.    He  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  had  won  a  lasting 

42 


THE    WESTERN    FEVER 

place  in  my  regard  as  the  maker  of  the  very  best  whistles 
and  fifes  of  chincapin  bark  of  any  one  I  had  ever  known. 
They  piped  more  shrilly  and  held  their  shape  longer  than 
those  turned  out  by  my  father  and  by  various  visitors  who 
paid  court  to  my  young  lady  cousins  through  me.  So  I 
looked  anxiously  at  the  alleged  sufferer,  startled  and  pained 
by  the  announcement  of  his  affliction.  He  was  eating  his 
breakfast  composedly,  and  answered  my  father's  "  Good- 
morning —  and  is  that  true,  my  boy?"  with  a  pleasant 
laugh.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  the  invalid  in  look,  action, 
or  tone. 

"I  can't  deny  it,  sir!" 

I  slipped  into  my  chair  beside  him,  receiving  a  caressing 
pat  on  the  hand  I  laid  on  his  arm,  and  hearkened  with 
greedy  ears  for  further  particulars  of  the  case,  never  asking 
a  question.  Children  of  that  generation  were  trained  to 
make  their  ears  and  eyes  do  duty  for  the  tongue.  I  com- 
prehended but  a  tithe  of  the  ensuing  conversation.  I 
made  out  that  the  mysterious  fever  did  not  affect  Frank's 
appetite  and  general  health,  but  that  it  involved  the  neces- 
sity of  his  leaving  us  for  a  long  time.  He  might  never 
come  back.  His  proviso  in  this  direction  was,  "If  I  do 
as  well  as  I  hope  to  do  out  there." 

When  he  had  excused  himself  and  left  the  table,  my 
father  startled  me  yet  more  by  his  answer  to  my  mother's 
remark:   "We  shall  miss  him.     He  is  a  nice  boy !" 

Her  husband  stirred  his  coffee  meditatively  for  a  moment 
before  saying,  without  looking  up: 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  not  a  touch  of  that  same 
fever  myself." 

With  the  inconsequence  of  infancy,  I  did  not  connect 
the  speech  with  our  breaking  up  the  Lunenburg  home 
the  next  autumn  and  setting  out  for  what  was  explained 
to  us  girls  as  a  round  of  visits  to  friends  in  Richmond  and 
Powhatan. 

43 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

We  call  ours  a  restless  age,  and  the  modern  American 
man  a  predatory  animal,  with  an  abnormal  craving  for 
adventure.  Change  and  Progress  are  the  genii  who  claim 
his  allegiance  and  sway  his  destiny.  In  sighing  for  the 
peace  and  rest  of  the  "former  times"  we  think  were 
"better  than  these,"  we  forget  (if  we  ever  knew)  that  our 
sires  were  possessed  by,  and  yielded  to,  unrest  as  intense 
and  dreams  as  golden  as  those  that  animate  the  explorer 
and  inventor  of  the  twentieth  century.  My  father  was  in 
no  sense  a  dreamer  of  day  dreams  of  the  dazzling  impossible. 
He  was  making  a  fair  living  in  the  heart  of  what  was,  even 
then,  "Old  Virginia."  He  had  recouped  his  shattered  fort- 
unes by  judicious  business  enterprise,  and  the  neat  share 
of  her  father's  estate  that  had  fallen  to  my  mother  at  his 
demise  in  1829,  placed  her  and  her  children  beyond  the 
reach  of  poverty.  The  merchant  was  respected  here  as 
he  had  been  in  Amelia,  for  his  intelligence,  probity,  courtesy, 
and  energy.  His  place  in  society  and  in  church  was  as- 
sured. Yet  he  had  caught  the  Western  fever.  And — a 
mightier  marvel— "  Uncle  Carus,"  the  clerical  Connecticut 
Yankee,  the  soul  of  conservatism,  who  had  settled  in  the 
downiest  of  nests  as  the  incumbent  of  Mount  Carmel,  a 
Presbyterian  church  built  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  Mon- 
trose plantation,  and  virtually  maintained  by  that  family 
— sober,  ease-loving  Uncle  Carus — had  joined  hands  with 
his  wife's  brother-in-law  in  the  purchase  of  Western  lands 
and  the  scheme  of  emigration. 

The  two  men  had  travelled  hundreds  of  miles  on  horse- 
back during  the  last  year  in  quest  of  a  location  for  the  new 
home.  My  father's  letters — worn  by  many  readings,  and 
showing  all  over  the  odd  and  unaccountable  brown  thumb- 
marks  of  time — bear  dates  of  wayside  post-offices  as  well 
as  of  towns— Lynchburg,  Staunton,  and  Charlottesville. 
Finally  they  crossed  the  Ohio  line,  and  after  due  delibera- 
tion, bought  a  farm  in  partnership.     The  letters  are  inter- 

44 


THE    WESTERN    FEVER 

esting  reading,  but  too  many  and  too  long  to  be  copied 
in  full. 

Every  detail  of  business  and  each  variation  of  plans 
were  communicated  as  freely  as  if  the  wife  were  associated 
with  him  in  commercial  as  in  domestic  life. 

Once,  when  he  is  doubtful  what  step  to  take  next,  he 
writes,  playfully:  "Some  men  need  a  propelling  power. 
It  might  be  well  for  you  to  exert  a  little  of  the  'govern- 
ment' with  which  some  of  our  friends  accredit  you,  and 
move  me  in  the  right  direction." 

When,  the  long  journey  accomplished  and  the  purchase 
of  the  farm  completed,  he  returned  home,  he  encountered 
no  opposition  from  his  wife,  but  much  from  neighbors  and 
friends.  A  letter  written  to  her  from  Lunenburg,  whither 
he  had  returned  to  close  up  his  affairs,  leaving  her  with 
her  brother  at  Olney,  describes  the  numerous  tokens  of 
regret  and  esteem  of  which  he  is  the  recipient.  The  climax 
of  the  list  comes  in  the  humorous  tale  of  how  an  old- 
fashioned  neighbor,  Mrs.  L ,  "says  it  troubled  her  so 

much  on  New  Year's  night  that  she  could  not  sleep.  She 
actually  got  up  after  trying  vainly  to  court  slumber, 
lighted  her  pipe,  and  smoked  and  thought  the  matter  over. 
She  was  not  reconciled,  after  all.  .  .  .  When  I  take  my  de- 
parture it  will  be  with  feelings  of  profound  regret,  and 
full  confidence  in  the  friendship  of  those  I  leave  behind." 

The  land  bought  in  Ohio  by  the  two  victims  of  the 
"Western  fever"  is  now  covered  by  the  city  of  Cleveland. 
If  the  two  New-Englanders  could  have  forecast  the  future, 
their  heirs  would  be  multi-millionaires. 

Behold  us,  then,  a  family  of  two  adults  and  three  babies 
— the  eldest  not  yet  seven  years  old — en  route  from  Rich- 
mond to  Montrose,  travelling  in  a  big  barouche,  with  a 
trunk  strapped  on  the  rack  behind,  in  lumbering  progress 
over  thirty-seven  miles  of  execrable  roads,  just  now  at  their 
worst  after  a  week  of  autumnal  rains. 

45 


MARION    HARLAND'S   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  damp  discomfort  of  the  journey  is  present  with  me 
now.  The  sun  did  not  shine  all  day  long;  the  raw  air 
pierced  to  the  bones ;  the  baby  was  cross ;  my  mother  was 
not  well,  and  my  sister  and  myself  were  cramped  by  long 
sitting  upon  the  back  seat.  Our  horses  were  strong,  but 
mud-holes  were  deep,  the  red  clay  was  adhesive,  and  the 
corduroy  causeways  jarred  us  to  soreness.  It  was  late  in 
the  day  when  we  turned  from  the  highway  toward  the  gate 
of  the  Montrose  plantation.  We  were  seen  from  the  house, 
and  a  colored  lad  of  fifteen  or  thereabouts  ran  fleetly  down 
the  avenue  to  open  the  great  outer  gate.  He  flung*  it  wide 
with  a  hospitable  intent  that  knocked  poor  Selim — the  off- 
horse — flat  into  the  mud.  Once  down,  he  did  not  offer 
to  arise  from  the  ruddy  ooze  that  embedded  one  side.  He 
had  snapped  the  harness  in  falling,  but  that  made  no 
difference  to  the  fagged-out  beast.  The  accident  was 
visible  from  the  porch  of  the  house,  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
away,  and  four  men  hastened  to  the  rescue. 

The  foremost  was,  I  thought,  the  handsomest  man  I 
had  ever  seen.  He  was  tall,  young,  as  dark  as  a  French- 
man (having  Huguenot  blood  in  his  veins),  and  with  a 
marvellously  sweet  smile.  Coming  up  to  my  pale  mother, 
as  she  stood  on  the  miry  roadside,  he  kissed  her,  picked 
up  the  baby,  and  bade  " Cousin  Anna"  lean  upon  his 
other  arm.  My  father  insisted  upon  relieving  him  of  the 
child;  but  the  picture  of  my  delicate  mother,  supported 
in  the  walk  up  the  drive  by  the  gallant  youth — her  favorite 
cousin  of  all  the  clan — Josiah  Smith,  of  Montrose — will 
never  leave  the  gallery  of  pictures  that  multiplied  fast 
from  this  date. 

I  did  him  loving  honor  to  the  best  of  my  poor  ability  as 
the  "Uncle  Archie"  of  "Judith."  I  cannot  pass  him  by 
without  this  brief  tribute. 

A  second  and  younger  cousin,  who  seemed  uninterest- 
ing beside  my  new  hero,  took  charge  of  my  sister  and  my- 

46 


MONTROSE 

self,  and  we  trudged  stiffly  on  to  the  ancient  homestead. 
An  avalanche  of  feminine  cousins  descended  upon  us  as 
we  entered  the  front  gate,  and  swept  us  along  through 
porch  and  hall  and  one  room  after  another,  to  the  "cham- 
ber," where  a  beautiful  old  lady  lay  in  bed. 

Her  hair  was  dark  as  midnight ;  so  were  her  eyes ;  her 
cap,  pillows,  gown,  and  the  bed-coverings  were  snowy  white. 
Her  face  was  that  of  a  saint.  This  was  "Aunt  Smith,"  the 
widowed  mistress  of  Montrose.  She  was  of  the  Huguenot 
Michaux  stock,  the  American  founders  of  a  colony  on 
James  River.  During  a  widowhood  of  twenty  years  she 
had,  by  wise  management,  relieved  the  estate  from  em- 
barrassment, brought  up  and  educated  six  children,  and 
established  for  herself  a  reputation  for  intelligence,  refine- 
ment, and  piety  that  is  yet  fragrant  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  recollect  Montrose  as  it  was  in  its  palmy  days. 

She  was  often  ailing,  as  I  saw  her  now.  Accustomed  as 
I  am  to  the  improved  physical  condition  of  American 
women,  I  wonder  what  was  amiss  with  the  gentlewomen 
of  that  generation;  how  they  lived  through  the  pro- 
tracted seasons  of  "feeling  poorly,"  and  their  frequent  con- 
finement to  bed  and  bed-chambers.  The  observation  of 
that  winter  fixed  in  my  imagination  the  belief  that  genteel 
invalidism  was  the  normal  state  of  what  the  colored  ser- 
vants classified  as  "real  ladies."  To  be  healthy  was  to 
approximate  vulgarity.  Aunt  Smith  was  as  much  in  her 
bed  as  out  of  it — or,  so  it  seemed  to  me.  Her  eldest  child, 
a  daughter  and  the  most  brilliant  of  the  family,  had  not 
had  a  day  of  perfect  health  since  she  had  an  unhappy  love- 
affair  at  twenty.  She  was  now  nearly  forty,  still  vivacious, 
and  the  oracle  of  the  homestead.  My  dearest  "Cousin 
Mary,"  resident  for  the  winter  at  Montrose  with  her  mother, 
was  fragile  as  a  wind-flower,  and  my  own  mother  fell  ill 
a  few  days  after  our  arrival  at  her  mother's  birthplace, 
and  did  not  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow  for  three  months. 

47 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  have  no  data  by  which  to  fix  the  relative  times  of  any 
happenings  of  that  long,  long,  dreary  winter.  It  dragged 
by  like  an  interminable  dream.  My  father  was  absent  in 
Ohio  for  some  weeks  of  the  first  month.  He  had  set  out 
on  a  second  journey  to  his  Promised  Land  when  his  wife 
fell  ill.  He  hurried  back  as  soon  as  the  news  overtook  him. 
But  it  took  a  long  time  for  the  letter  of  recall  to  find 
him,  and  as  long  for  him  to  retrace  his  steps  —  or  his 
horse's. 

I  have  but  a  hazy  recollection  of  his  telling  me  one  day 
that  I  was  five  years  old.  I  had  had  other  birthdays,  of 
course,  but  this  was  the  first  I  remember.  It  was  equally, 
of  course,  the  21st  of  December.  There  was  no  cele- 
bration of  the  unimportant  event.  If  anybod}'  was  glad 
I  was  upon  the  earth,  I  had  no  intimation  of  the  fact. 
I  should  not  mark  the  anniversary  as  of  any  note,  now, 
had  not  it  been  fixed  in  my  brain  by  a  present  from  my 
father  of  The  New  York  Reader,  a  hideous  little  volume, 
with  stiff  covers  of  straw  pasteboard  pasted  over  with  blue 
paper.  My  father  took  me  upon  his  knee,  and  talked  to 
me,  seriously  and  sorrowfully,  of  my  crass  ignorance  and 
disinclination  to  "learn."  I  was  five  years  old,  and — this 
low  and  mournfully,  as  one  might  state  a  fact  disgraceful 
to  the  family  connection  —  I  "did  not  even  know  my 
letters!"  The  dear  mother,  who  lay  sick  up-stairs,  had 
tried,  over  and  over,  to  teach  me  what  every  big  girl  of  my 
age  ought  to  know.  He  did  not  believe  that  his  little 
daughter  was  a  dunce.  He  hoped  that  I  loved  my  mother 
and  himself  well  enough  to  try  to  learn  how  to  read  out  of 
this  nice,  new  book.  Cousin  Paulina  Carus — a  girl  of  sixteen, 
at  home  from  school  on  sick-leave,  indefinitely  extended — 
had  offered  to  teach  me.  He  had  told  her  he  was  sure  I 
would  do  better  than  I  had  done  up  to  this  time.  He  was 
mortified  when  people  asked  him  what  books  I  had  read, 
and  he  had  to  tell  the  truth.     He  did  not  believe  there  was 

48 


A    MOTHER    REGAINED 

another  "nice"  child  in  the  county,  five  years  old,  who  did 
not  know  her  a,  b,  c's. 

I  was  wetting  his  frilled  shirt-front  with  penitential  tears 
long  before  the  sermon  was  finished.  He  wiped  them  with 
a  big  silk  handkerchief — red,  with  white  spots  scattered 
over  the  expanse — kissed  me,  and  set  me  down  very 
gently. 

"My  little  girl  will  not  forget  what  father  has  been  say- 
ing. Think  how  pleased  mother  will  be  when  she  gets 
well  to  find  that  you  can  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  to 
her!" 

The  story  went  for  fact  in  the  family  that  I  set 
myjolf  zealously  about  the  appointed  task  of  learning 
the  alphabet  in  consequence  of  this  lecture.  I  heard  it 
told,  times  without  number,  and  never  contradicted  it.  It 
sounded  well,  and  I  had  a  passion  for  heroinism,  on  never 
so  small  a  scale.  And  grown  people  should  know  what 
they  were  talking  of  in  asserting  that  "Virginia  made  up 
her  mind,  the  day  she  was  five  years  old,  that  she  would 
turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  be  no  longer  a  dunce  at  her  books." 
It  may  be,  too,  as  I  now  see,  that  the  solemn  parental 
homily  (I  always  dreaded  the  lecture  succeeding  a  whip- 
ping more  than  the  stripes) — it  may  be,  I  grant,  that  some- 
thing was  stirred  in  my  fallow  intellect  akin  to  the  germina- 
tion of  the  "bare  grain"  under  spring  showers.  If  this 
were  true,  it  was  a  clear  case  of  what  theologians  term 
"unconscious  conversion."  Were  I  to  trust  to  my  own 
judgment,  based  upon  personal  reminiscence,  I  should  say 
that  I  went  to  bed  one  night  not — as  the  phrase  goes — 
"knowing  B  from  a  bull's  foot,"  and  awoke  reading.  Per- 
haps Dogberry  was  nearer  right  than  we  think  in  averring 
that  "reading  and  writing  come  by  nature."  And  that 
my  time  was  ripe  for  receiving  them. 

I  had  outgrown  my  dislike  of  The  New  York  Reader, 
wearing  most  of  the  blue  paper  off  the  straw,  and  loosen- 

49 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ing  not  a  few  of  the  tiny  fibres  beneath;  I  could  read, 
without  spelling  aloud,  the  stories  that  were  the  jelly  to 
the  pill  of  conning  the  alphabet  and  the  combinations 
thereof;  the  spring  had  really  come  at  last  on  the  tardy 
heels  of  that  black  winter.  The  grass  was  lush  and  warm 
under  my  feet;  the  sweetbrier  and  multiflora  roses  over 
the  Montrose  porches  were  in  bloom,  and  the  locust-trees 
were  white  with  flowers  and  resonant  with  the  hum  of 
bees,  when,  one  day,  as  I  played  in  the  yard,  I  heard  a 
weak,  sweet  voice  calling  my  name. 

Looking  up,  I  saw  my  mother  in  a  white  gown,  a  scarlet 
shawl  wrapped  about  her  shoulders,  leaning  from  her  bed- 
room window  and  smiling  down  upon  me. 

I  screamed  with  ecstasy,  jumping  up  and  down,  clap- 
ping my  hands,  and  crying  to  my  dusky  playfellows,  Rose 
and  Judy: 

''Look!  Oh,  look!  I  have  a  mother  again — as  well  as 
anybody!" 

Close  upon  the  blessed  apparition  came  her  champion- 
ship of  her  neglected  "middle  child,"  against  the  imposi- 
tions of  "  Mea,"  Anne  Carus,  and  a  bigger  niece  of  Aunt 
Smith  who  was  much  at  the  homestead.  On  a  happy 
forenoon  the  mother  I  had  received  back  from  the  edge 
of  the  grave  called  me  to  her  bedside,  for,  although  con- 
valescent, she  did  not  rise  until  noon. 

Pointing  to  a  covered  basket  that  stood  by  her  bed,  she 
bade  me  lift  the  lid.  Within,  upon  white  paper,  lay 
a  great  handful  of  dried  cherries,  a  sheet  of  "  peach 
leather,"  and  four  round  ginger -cakes,  the  pattern  and 
taste  of  which  I  knew  well  as  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the 
"sweeties"  manufactured  by  Mam'  Peggy,  the  Montrose 
cook. 

"I  heard  that  the  bigger  children  had  a  tea-party  last 
night  after  you  had  gone  to  bed,"  she  said,  smilingly  ten- 
der.    "It  isn't  fair  that  my  little  daughter  should  not  have 

50 


A    MOTHER    REGAINED 

her  share.     So  I  sent  Jane" — her  maid — "down  for  these, 
and  saved  them  for  you." 

No  other  "goodies"  were  ever  so  delicious,  but  their 
finest  flavor  was  drawn  from  the  mental  repetition  of  the 
exultant:   "I  have  a  mother  again — as  well  as  anybody!" 
5 


V 


our  powhatan  home — a  country  funeral —  old  mrs. 

o'hara." 

My  mother's  illness  of  nearly  four  months  deflected  the 
current  of  our  lives.  My  father,  convinced  probably  of 
the  peril  to  her  life  of  a  Western  journey,  and  wrought 
upon  by  the  persuasions  of  her  relatives,  bought  the  "good- 
will and  fixtures"  of  a  store  at  Powhatan  Court  House,  a 
village  seven  miles  nearer  Richmond  than  Montrose,  and 
thither  we  removed  as  soon  as  the  convalescent  was  strong 
enough. 

Her  husband  wrote  to  her  from  Richmond  en  route  for 
"the  North,"  where  he  was  to  purchase  a  stock  of  the 
"goods"  upon  which  the  territory  environing  his  new 
home  was  dependent  for  most  of  the  necessaries  and  all 
of  the  luxuries  of  life. 

"I  am  very  solicitous  as  to  your  early  restoration  to  health. 
Be  careful  not  to  rise  too  early,  and  keep  a  strict  watch  over 
your  appetite.  It  is  not  safe  to  indulge  it,  yet  there  is  danger 
in  the  opposite  course.  .  .  . 

"I  attended  a  prayer-meeting  at  Mr.  Hutchinson's  on 
Thursday  evening,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  lecture 
from  Mr.  Nettleton.  It  was  a  pleasant  meeting.  I  wish  you 
had  been  with  me!  To-day  (Sunday)  I  heard  Mr.  Plumer  and 
Mr.  Brown,  both  of  whom  were  interesting.  Mr.  Plumer's 
subject  was  the  young  ruler  running  to  Our  Saviour  and  kneel- 
ing down  with  the  inquiry,  '  What  must  I  do  to  be  saved  ?'  .  .  . 

"Your  brother  was  at  church  yesterday.  His  wife  has  a 
fine  boy  a  month  old.     You  have  probably  heard  of  the  event, 

52 


OUR    POWHATAN    HOME 

although  I  did  not  until  my  arrival  here.  I  am  told  he  says 
it  is  'the  prettiest  thing  that  was  ever  seen/  and  feels  quite 
proud  of  this,  their  first  exhibition. 

"There  is  great  difficulty  in  getting  to  New  York  this 
spring.  The  Delaware  was  closed  by  ice  for  two  months,  and 
up  to  the  middle  of  March  this  was  eighteen  inches  thick. 
Merchants  have  been  detained  in  Baltimore  from  two  to  seven 
days,  waiting  for  stages  to  go  on.  The  number  of  travellers 
was  so  large  that  they  could  not  be  accommodated  sooner. 
The  steamboat  runs  from  Richmond  to  Baltimore  but  once  a 
week,  and  leaves  on  Sunday  morning.  Several  of  my  ac- 
quaintances went  on  to-day.  They  were  urgent  that  I  should 
go  with  them,  but  my  determination  is  not  to  travel  on  the 
Sabbath.     I  shall,  therefore,  take  the  land  route  to  Balto.  .  .  . 

"Goods  are  reported  to  be  very  scarce  and  high  in  all  the 
Northern  cities.  They  are  high  in  this  place,  and  advancing 
every  day.  Groceries  are  dearer  than  I  have  seen  them  since 
1815,  and  it  is  thought  they  will  be  yet  dearer. 

"'That  will  do!'  I  hear  you  say,  'as  I  am  not  a  merchant.' 
Well,  no  more  of  it!  I  must  charge  you  again  to  be  very, 
very  careful  of  yourself.  Kiss  our  little  children  for  father. 
I  shall  hurry  through  my  business  here  as  soon  as  possible 
and  hasten  my  return  to  my  home. 

"May  the  Lord  bestow  on  you  His  choicest  blessings  and 

grant   a  speedy  return   of  health!     Remember  me  in  your 

prayers.     Adieu,  mv  Love!  U^T  a  „ 

r    J  '  Your  own  S. 

The  sere  and  yellow  sheet  is  marked  on  the  outside,  in 
the  upper  left-hand  corner,  "Single"  in  the  lower,  "Mail," 
and  in  the  upper  right-hand,  "12  cents." 

This  was  in  the  dark  ages  when  there  was  but  one 
steamer  per  week  to  Baltimore,  and  there  were  not  stages 
enough  to  carry  the  passengers  from  the  Monument  City 
to  New  York;  when  the  railway  to  Fredericksburg  was 
a  dream  in  the  minds  of  a  few  Northern  visionaries,  and  the 
magnetic  telegraph  was  not  even  dreamed  of.  My  mother 
has  told  me  that,  in  reading  the  newspaper  aloud  to  her 

53 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

father  in  1824,  she  happened  upon  an  account  of  an  in- 
vention of  one  George  Stephenson  for  running  carriages 
by  steam.     Captain  Sterling  laughed  derisively. 

"What  nonsense  these  papers  print!  You  and  I  won't 
live  to  see  that,  little  girl!" 

I  heard  the  anecdote  upon  an  express  train  from  Rich- 
mond to  New  York,  his  "little  girl"  being  the  narrator. 

In  those  same  dark  ages,  strong  men,  whom  acquaint- 
ances never  accused  of  cant,  or  suspected  of  sentimentality, 
went  to  evening  prayer-meetings,  and  accounted  it  a  de- 
light to  hear  two  sermons  on  Sunday;  laid  pulpit  teach- 
ings to  heart;  practised  self-examination,  and  wrote  love- 
letters  to  their  own  wives.  If  this  were  not  the  "Simple 
Life"  latter-day  philosophists  exploit  as  a  branch  of  the 
New  Thought  Movement,  it  will  never  be  lived  on  this 
low  earth. 

Our  first  home  in  the  little  shire-town  (then  "Scottville") 
was  at  "  Belle vue,"  a  red  brick  house  on  a  hill  overlooking 
the  hamlet.  Separated  from  Bellevue  by  two  fields  and 
the  public  highway,  was  "Erin  Hill,"  built  by  one  of  the 
same  family,  which  had,  it  is  needless  to  observe,  both 
Irish  and  French  blood  in  it. 

Erin  Hill  was  for  rent  just  when  Uncle  Cams  decided  to 
bring  his  family  from  Montrose — where  they  had  lived  for 
ten  years — to  the  village. 

This  is  the  fittest  time  and  place  in  which  to  sketch  the 
pastor  of  Mount  Carmel  Church.  Martin  Chuzzlewit  was 
not  written  until  a  score  of  years  later.  When  it  was 
read  aloud  in  our  family  circle,  there  was  not  a  dissenting 
voice  when  my  mother  uttered,  in  a  voice  smothered  by 
inward  mirth,  "Mr.  Carus!"  as  Mr.  Pecksniff  appeared 
upon  the  stage. 

The  portrait  was  absurdly  striking.  The  Yankee  Peck- 
sniff was  good-looking  after  his  kind,  which  was  the  dark- 
eyed,  well-featured,  serenely-sanctimonious  type.    He  wore 

54 


OUR    POWHATAN    HOME 

his  hair  longer  than  most  laymen  cut  theirs,  and  it  curled 
naturally.  His  voice  was  low  and  even,  with  the  pulpitine 
cadences  hit  off,  and  at,  cleverly  by  Doctor  Holmes  as 
"a  tone  supposed  by  the  speaker  to  be  peculiarly  pleasing 
to  the  Almighty." 

His  smile  was  sweet,  his  gait  was  felinely  dignified,  and 
a  pervasive  aroma  of  meekness  tempered  his  daily  walk 
and  conversation.  His  wife,  "Aunt  Betsy,"  was  the  saint- 
liest  soul  that  ever  rated  herself  as  the  least  important 
of  God's  creatures,  and  cared  with  motherly  tenderness 
for  everything  else  her  Creator  brought  within  her  modest 
sphere  of  action.  In  all  the  years  of  our  intimate  associa- 
tion I  never  saw  her  out  of  temper  or  heard  a  harsh  word 
from  the  lips  in  which  nestled  and  abode  the  law  of  kind- 
ness. She  brought  him  a  tidy  little  slice  of  her  father's 
estate,  which  he  husbanded  wisely.  He  was  economical 
to  parsimony,  and  contrived  to  imbue  wife  and  children 
with  a  lively  sense  of  the  need  of  saving  in  every  conceiv- 
able way  "against  a  rainy  day." 

At  ten  years  of  age  I  asked  my  mother,  point-blank, 
what  salary  the  church  paid  Uncle  Carus.  She  answered 
as  directly: 

"Three  hundred  dollars  a  year.  But  he  has  property 
of  his  own." 

Whereupon,  without  the  slightest  idea  of  being  pert,  I 
remarked,  "If  we  were  to  get  a  really  good  preacher,  I 
suppose  he  would  have  to  be  paid  more."  And  my  mother 
responded  as  simply:  "No  doubt.  But  your  Uncle  Carus 
is  a  very  faithful  pastor." 

I  put  no  questions,  but  I  pondered  in  my  heart  the  pur- 
port of  a  dialogue  I  got  in  snatches  while  reading  on  the 
back  porch  one  afternoon,  when  a  good-hearted  neighbor 
and  my  mother  were  talking  of  the  school  to  be  opened  in 
the  village  under  the  tuition  of  Cousin  Paulina,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Aunt  Betsy  and  her  second  husband. 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

She  was  now  in  her  eighteenth  year,  a  graduate  of  a 
somewhat  noted  "female"  seminary,  decidedly  pretty, 
with  a  quick  temper  and  a  talent  for  teaching. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  the  friendly  visitor,  "to  tie  her  down 
to  a  school-room  when  she  is  just  at  the  age  when  girls 
like  to  see  company  and  go  round  with  other  young  people. 
It  isn't  as  if  they  were  obliged  to  put  her  to  work." 

My  mother  replied  discreetly,  yet  I  detected  a  sym- 
pathetic tone  in  her  speech. 

The  talk  came  into  my  mind  many  a  time  after  the 
sessions  of  the  school  began,  and  I  saw,  through  the  window, 
young  men  and  girls  walking,  riding,  and  driving  past,  the 
girls  in  their  prettiest  attire,  the  young  men  gallantly 
attentive,  and  all  enjoying  the  gala-time  of  life  that  comes 
but  once  to  any  of  us. 

If  the  dark-eyed,  serious,  eighteen-year-old  teacher  felt 
the  deprivation,  she  never  murmured.  I  think  her  mother 
had  taught  her,  with  her  first  word  and  trial-step,  to  believe 
that  her  "father  knew  best." 

The  school  —  the  first  I  ever  attended  —  was  in  the 
second  story  of  an  untenanted  house  on  a  side-street, 
rented  from  a  villager.  It  was  kept  for  ten  months  of  the 
year.  A  vacation  of  a  month  in  May,  and  another  in  Sep- 
tember, divided  two  terms  of  five  months  each.  I  climbed 
the  carpetless  stairs  to  the  big  upper  room  six  or  eight 
times  daily  for  five  days  a  week,  for  forty  weeks,  and 
never  without  a  quailing  of  nerve  and  sinking  of  heart  as 
I  strode  past  a  locked  door  at  the  left  of  the  entrance. 

Inside  of  that  door  I  had  had  my  first  view  of  Death. 

I  could  not  have  been  six  years  old,  for  it  was  summer, 
or  early  autumn,  and  I  was  walking  my  doll  to  sleep  up 
andTdown  the  main  alley  of  the  garden,  happy  and  bare- 
headed, and  unconsciously  "feeling  my  life  in  every  limb," 
when  my  mother  called  to  me  from  the  window  to  "come 
and  be  dressed." 

56 


A    COUNTRY    FUNERAL 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  and  your  sister  to  a  funeral," 
she  continued,  as  a  maid  buttoned  me  up  in  a  clean  white 
frock,  put  on  my  Sunday  shoes,  and  brushed  the  rebellious 
mop  of  hair  that  was  never  smooth  for  ten  minutes  in  the 
day. 

"May  I  take  my  doll?"  asked  I,  "sh-sh-ing"  her  in  a 
cuddling  arm.  I  was  trying  very  hard  to  love  lifeless 
dolls. 

"Shame  on  you,  Miss  Firginny !"  put  in  the  maid,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  I  had  spoken  in  church.  "Did  anybody 
ever  see  sech  another  chile  fur  sayin'  things?"  she  added 
to  my  mother. 

Mea  looked  properly  shocked;  my  mother,  ever  light 
of  heart,  and  inclined  to  let  unimportant  mistakes  pass, 
smiled. 

"We  don't  take  dolls  to  funerals,  my  daughter.  It 
would  not  be  right." 

I  did  not  push  inquiries  as  to  the  nature  of  the  enter- 
tainment to  which  we  were  bound,  albeit  the  word,  already 
familiar  to  me  by  reason  of  two  or  three  repetitions,  was 
not  in  my  vocabulary  an  hour  ago.  Content  and  pleased 
in  the  knowledge  that  an  outing  was  on  foot,  I  put  my 
doll  to  bed  in  a  closet  under  the  stairs  used  by  Mea  and 
myself  as  a  "baby-house,"  shut  the  door  to  keep  Argus 
and  Rigo — sprightly  puppies  with  inquisitive  noses — from 
tearing  her  limb  from  limb,  as  they  had  rent  her  imme- 
diate predecessor,  and  sallied  forth.  The  roadside  was 
thick  with  sheep-mint  and  wild  hoarhound  and  tansy.  I 
bruised  them  in  dancing  along  in  front  of  my  mother 
and  my  sober  sister.  The  bitter-sweet  smell  arose  to  my 
nostrils  to  be  blent  forever  in  imagination  with  the  event 
of  the  day. 

A  dozen  or  more  carriages  were  in  the  road  before  the 
shabby  frame  house  I  had  heard  spoken  of  as  "old  Mrs. 
O'Hara's,"  but  which  I  had  never  entered.     Eight  or  ten 

57 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

horses  were  tethered  to  the  fence,  and  a  group  of  men 
loitered  about  the  door.  As  we  went  up  the  steps  I  saw 
that  the  parlor  was  full  of  villagers.  Some  were  sitting; 
more  were  standing  in  a  kind  of  expectant  way;  all  were 
so  grave  that  my  spirits  fell  to  church-temperature.  Some- 
thing solemn  was  going  on.  Just  inside  of  the  parlor  door 
the  mother  of  my  most  intimate  girl-friend  sat  in  a  rocking- 
chair.  She  had  on  a  black  silk  dress  and  her  best  bonnet. 
Every  woman  present  wore  black.  I  saw  Mrs.  D.  beckon  up 
Major  Goode,  an  elderly  beau  who  was  a  notable  figure  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  whisper  audibly  to  him,  "If  you 
want  more  chairs,  you  may  send  over  to  our  house  for 
them." 

It  was  evidently  a  great  function,  for  Mrs.  D.  was  a 
notable  housekeeper,  and  her  furniture  the  finest  in  the 
place.  Her  drawing-room  chairs  were  heavy  mahogany, 
and  upholstered  with  black  horsehair.  Her  house,  alto- 
gether the  best  within  a  radius  of  several  miles,  was  not 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  O'Hara  cottage;  but  that  she 
should  make  the  neighborly  offer  thrilled  me  into  name- 
less awe. 

My  mother  moved  forward  slowly,  holding  my  hand 
fast  in  hers,  and  I  was  led,  without  warning,  up  to  a  long, 
black,  open  box,  set  upon  two  chairs,  one  at  each  end. 
In  the  long,  black  box  lay  a  woman  I  had  never  seen  be- 
fore. She  was  awfully  white;  her  eyes  were  shut;  she 
looked  peaceful,  even  happy;  but  she  was  not  asleep.  No 
sleeping  creature  was  ever  so  moveless  and  marble-pale. 
Her  terrible  stillness  impressed  me  most  painfully  by  its 
very  unlikeness  to  the  heaving,  palpitating  crowd  about 
her.  A  mob-cap  with  a  closely  fluted  border  framed  the 
face ;  she  was  dressed  in  a  long  cambric  gown  of  a  pattern 
entirely  new  to  me.  It  lay  in  moveless  plaits  as  stiff  as 
paper  from  her  chin  to  her  feet,  which  it  hid;  it  was  pinked 
in  tiny  points  at  the  bottom  of  the  skirt  and  the  cuffs; 

58 


"OLD    MRS.    O'HARA" 

the  hands,  crossed  at  the  wrists  as  no  living  hands  are 
ever  laid,  were  bound  at  the  crossing  with  white  satin 
ribbon.  Under  the  moveless  figure  was  a  cambric  sheet, 
also  pinked  at  the  edges,  that  fell  straight  to  the  floor  over 
the  sides  of  the  coffin. 

I  must  have  pinched  my  mother's  hand  with  my  tighten- 
ing fingers,  for  she  eyed  me  in  grave  surprise,  not  unmixed 
with  reproof,  in  taking  a  seat  and  drawing  me  to  her  side. 
There  was  no  place  for  children  to  sit  down.  I  am  sure 
that  she  had  not  an  inkling  of  the  unspeakable  fright  that 
possessed  my  ignorant  mind. 

From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never  gone  to  a  funeral 
when  I  could  possibly  keep  away  from  it  upon  any  decent 
pretext.  When  constrained  by  circumstance  to  be  one  of 
the  party  collected  about  a  coffin,  I  invariably  have  a  re- 
turn, in  some  measure,  of  the  choking  horrors  of  that  awful 
day.  For  days,  sometimes  for  weeks  afterward,  the  dread 
is  an  obsession  I  cannot  dispel  by  any  effort  of  will.  Argue 
and  struggle  as  I  may,  I  am  haunted  night  and  day  by 
the  memory  of  the  woman  whom  I  never  saw  while  she 
lived. 

As  if  the  brooding  hush,  so  deadly  to  my  childish  senses ; 
the  funeral  sermon,  delivered  in  Uncle  Carus's  most  se- 
pulchral chest  tones,  and  the  wild,  wailing  measures  of 

"  Why  should  we  mourn  departing  friends?" 

sung  to  immemorial  "China" — were  not  enough  to  rivet 
the  scene  forever  upon  my  soul,  a  final  and  dramatic 
touch  was  superadded.  Two  men  brought  forward  a  long, 
black  top,  which  they  were  about  to  fix  in  place  upon  the 
dreadful  box,  when  a  young  woman  in  black  rushed  from 
a  corner,  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  beside  the  coffin, 
and  screamed:  "Mother,  mother!  You  sha'n't  take  her 
away!"  making  as  if  she  would  push  back  the  men. 
"Harriet!    Harriet!"  remonstrated  a  deep  voice,  and 

•59 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Major  Goode,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  stooped 
and  lifted  the  daughter  by  main  force.  "This  won't  do, 
child!" 

Fifteen  years  later,  sitting  in  the  calm  moonlight  upon 
the  porch-steps  at  "Homestead,"  the  dwelling  of  my 
chum,  Effie  D.,  I  heard  from  Mrs.  D.'s  lips  the  story  of 
Mrs.  O'Hara.  Her  cottage,  subsequently  our  school- 
house,  had  been  pulled  down  long  ago  as  an  eyesore  to 
the  fastidious  mistress  of  Homestead.  At  least  I  got  that 
section  of  the  old  lady's  life  that  had  to  do  with  the  gray- 
haired  Major  Goode,  a  veteran  of  the  War  of  1812.  Both 
the  actors  in  the  closing  scene  seemed,  in  the  review  of  my 
childish  impressions  of  the  funeral,  to  have  been  too  old 
to  figure  in  the  tale. 

"You  can  understand  why  nobody  in  the  village  could 
visit  her,"  concluded  the  placid  narrator  to  whom  I  am 
indebted  for  numberless  traditions  and  real  life-romances. 
"The  funeral  was  another  matter.  Death  puts  us  all  upon 
a  level." 

There  was  the  skeleton  of  a  chronique  scandaleuse  in  the 
bit  of  exhumed  gossip. 


VI 


OLD-FASHIONED  HUSBANDS  LOVE-LETTER  —  AN  ALMOST 
HOMICIDE — -"SLAUGHTERED  MONSTER  " — A  WESLEYAN 
SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

"Roxbury,  July  26th,  1838. 
"My  dear  Wife, — Your  esteemed  letter  of  the  20th  is  at 
hand,  and  it  has  relieved  my  mind  to  hear  that  you  are  all 
doing  so  well.  I  suppose  you  expect  a  history  of  my  move- 
ments here.  Well,  on  Saturday  morning  went  to  Boston; 
in  the  evening  took  mother  and  called  on  all  my  Dorchester 
friends — stayed  with  some  five  minutes,  with  others  fifteen,  etc. 
Sunday,  went  to  church;  very  dry  sermon  in  morning;  even- 
ing attended  Mr.  Abbot's  church;  was  much  pleased  with 
the  preaching — text — -'And  there  came  one  running  and 
kneeling  to  Him,  and  said,'  etc.  At  night  attended  at  same 
place  what  they  call  a  '  Conference  Meeting ' — quite  an  interest- 
ing time.  Monday,  went  to  Brookline — visited  sisters.  Tea  at 
Mr.  Davis's;  music  of  the  best  kind  in  abundance.  Tuesday 
to  Boston  in  morning,  evening  at  home  to  receive  company. 
Quite  a  pleasant  afternoon ;  a  good  many  Dorchester  friends 
calling.  Wednesday  morning  as  usual  in  the  city;  evening- 
held  a  grand  levee:  the  street  filled  with  chaises  and  carriages; 
some  twenty  or  more  to  tea.  Really,  my  visit  has  created 
quite  a  sensation  among  our  good  friends ;  some  met  yesterday 
afternoon  who  have  not  seen  each  other  for  ten  or  more  years. 
Don't  you  think  I  had  better  come  here  oftener  to  keep  up  the 
family  acquaintance?  for  it  seems  to  require  some  extraor- 
dinary event  to  set  these  good  folks  to  using  their  powers  of 
locomotion.  By-the-by,  you  must  not  be  jealous,  but  I  had 
a  lady  kiss  me  yesterday,  for  the  first  time  it  was  ever  done 
here,  and  who  do  you  think  it  was  ?     My  cousin  Mary,  of  whom 

61 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

you  have  heard  rue  speak.  I  have  so  much  love  given  in 
charge  for  you,  my  own  dear  wife,  that  it  will  be  necessary  to 
send  a  part  of  it  in  this  letter  for  fear  that  I  should  not  be  able 
to  travel  with  it  all.  I  am  especially  directed  to  bear  from  a 
lady  two  kisses  to  you  from  her,  and  they  shall  be  faithfully 
delivered  when  we  are  permitted  to  meet.  You  don't  know 
how  many  inquiries  have  been  made  after  you,  and  regrets 
expressed  that  you  did  not  come  on  with  me.  Mother  says, 
'Tell  Anna  I  should  like  for  Samuel  to  stay  longer,  but  know 
that  he  is  wanting  at  home,  so  will  not  say  a  word  at  his 
leaving.'  She  sends  much  love  to  her  daughter  Anna.  Father 
keeps  coming  in,  and  from  his  movements  I  judge  he  is  waiting 
for  me  to  finish.  You  know  he  is  clock-work,  so  adieu  once 
more.  Give  my  love  to  the  girls,  and  all  at  the  parsonage. 
Kiss  the  children  for  father.  I  must  now  close  my  letter  by 
commending  you  to  the  care  and  protection  of  Him  who 
preserves,  guides,  and  directs  us  in  all  things.  May  His  choicest 
blessing  rest  on  you,  my  dear  wife,  and  on  the  children  of  our 
love!    Adieu,  my  dear  wife. 

"Your  husband, 

"Samuel." 

Thus  cheerily  runs  the  old-fashioned  family  epistle. 
The  writer,  who  never  demitted  the  habit  of  going  to 
church  twice  every  Sunday,  and  sometimes  thrice,  does 
not  comment  upon  the  coincidence  that  he  hears  again  a 
sermon  from  the  text  used  and  "improved"  by  a  Virginia 
d-ivine,  two  years  ago.  His  mind  was  full  of  other  things 
just  now.  This  one  of  his  annual  visits  to  his  mother  was 
a  glad  holiday.  The  world  was  going  smoothly  with  him, 
and  the  hearty  congratulations  of  townspeople  and  kindred 
were  a-bubble.  His  mother  was  happy  in  her  second  mar- 
riage. The  good  deacon  was  "father"  to  her  son  and 
his  wife,  and  filled  the  role  well. 

My  father's  namesake  son,  Samuel  Horace,  was  born 
earlier  in  the  summer. 

Although  the  month  was  June,  the  weather  must  have 

G2 


AN    ALMOST    HOMICIDE 

been  cold  or  damp,  for  a  low  wood  fire  burned  upon  the 
hearth  one  afternoon  as  I  crept  into  the  "chamber"  to 
get  a  peep  at  the  three-days-old  baby,  and  perchance  to 
have  a  talk  with  my  mother.  The  nurse,  before  leaving 
the  room  on  an  errand,  had  laid  the  infant  upon  a  pillow 
in  a  rocking-chair  (I  have  it  now!)  There  was  no  cradle 
in  the  house,  and  one  had  been  ordered  from  Richmond. 
My  mother  was  asleep,  and,  I  supposed,  had  the  baby 
beside  her.  Stealing  noiselessly  across  the  floor,  I  backed 
up  to  the  Boston  rocker,  in  childish  fashion,  put  my  hands 
upon  the  arms  of  the  chair,  and  raised  myself  on  tiptoe, 
when  the  child  (aroused,  I  fancy,  by  his  guardian  angel, 
prescient  of  the  good  he  would  accomplish  in  the  world 
he  had  just  entered,  and  compassionate  of  the  remorseful 
wight  whose  life  would  be  blighted  by  the  impending  deed) 
stretched  out  his  arms  and  yawned.  I  saw  the  movement 
under  my  lifted  arm,  and  dropped  flat  upon  the  rug.  I 
must  have  crouched  there  for  half  an  hour,  a  prey  to  hor- 
rible imaginings  of  what  might  have  been.  My  mother 
did  not  awaken,  and  the  baby  went  to  sleep  again.  The 
shock  would  have  been  terrific  to  any  child.  To  a  dreamer 
like  myself,  the  visions  that  flitted  between  me  and  the 
red  embers  were  as  varied  as  they  were  fearful.  Lucy 
Bragg's  tragic  death  had  killed  her  mother  and  the  baby- 
boy.  If  I  had  crushed  our  new  baby,  my  own  sweet 
mother  would  have  died  with  him.  I  saw  myself  at  their 
funeral,  beside  the  coffin  holding  them  both,  and  my  father 
shrinking  in  abhorrence  from  the  murderess.  Forecasting 
long  years  to  come,  I  pictured  a  stricken  and  solitary  wom- 
an, shunned  by  innocent  people  who  had  never  broken  the 
sixth  commandment,  and  cowering  beside  a  brier-grown 
grave,  crying  as  I  had  read  somewhere,  "Would  to  God 
I  had  died  when  I  was  born!" 

I  do  not  think  I  shed  a  tear.     Tears  were  dried  up  by 
the  voiceless  misery.     I  know  I  could  not  sleep  that  night 

63 


MARION  HARLAND'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

for  hours  and  hours.  I  know,  too,  that  I  never  told  the 
shameful  thing — the  almost  murder — to  a  living  creature 
imtil  it  was  ten  years  old. 

I  appreciate,  most  clearly  of  all,  that  my  baby-brother 
became  from  that  hour,  in  some  sort,  my  especial  property. 
The  peculiar  tenderness  that  has  characterized  our  feeling 
for  each  other,  the  steadfast  affection  and  perfect  confi- 
dence in  our  mutual  love  that  have  known  no  variableness 
or  shadow  of  turning,  for  all  our  united  lives,  may  not 
have  been  rooted  in  the  vigil  of  unutterable  horror  and 
unspeakable  thankfulness.  I  look  back  upon  it  as  a 
chrism. 

Later  in  the  year,  another  incident  that  might  have  been 
a  tragedy,  stirred  the  even  flow  of  domestic  life.  We  had 
finished  prayers  and  breakfast,  and  my  father  was  half- 
way down  the  avenue  on  his  way  to  the  village  when  we 
saw  him  stop  suddenly,  retrace  his  steps  hurriedly,  enter 
the  yard,  and  shout  to  the  colored  butler  who  was  at  the 
dining-room  window.  The  man  ran  out  and  came  back 
shortly,  dragging  Argus  and  Rigo  into  the  hall  with  him, 
shutting  the  front  door.  My  father  was  taking  down  his 
gun  from  the  hooks  on  the  wall  of  the  hall,  and,  without 
a  word,  began  to  load  it. 

One  of  the  earliest  of  our  nursery  lessons  was,  "Never 
ask  questions  of  busy  people!"  My  mother  set  the  exam- 
ple of  obedience  to  this  precept  now  by  silence  while  her 
husband,  with  set  lips  and  resolute  eyes,  rammed  down  a 
charge  of  buckshot  into  the  barrel,  and,  saying,  "Keep 
the  children  in  the  house!"  ran  down  the  steps  and  down 
the  avenue  at  the  top  of  his  speed  toward  the  big  gate 
opening  upon  the  village  street  a  hundred  yards  away. 

From  the  front  windows  we  now  saw  a  crowd  of  men  and 
boys,  tramping  down  the  middle  of  the  highway,  firing  con- 
fusedly and  flinging  stones  at  a  great  yellow  dog  trotting 
ahead  of  them,  and  snapping  right  and  left  as  he  ran. 

64 


"SLAUGHTERED    MONSTER" 

Before  my  father  reached  the  gate,  the  dog  had  turned 
sharply  to  the  right  down  a  cross-street  skirting  our  lower 
grounds.  A  low  fence  and  a  ditch  divided  the  meadow 
from  the  thoroughfare.  My  father  kept  on  our  side  of  the 
fence,  raising  his  gun  to  cover  the  brute,  which,  as  we 
could  now  see,  was  slavering  and  growling  hoarsely.  A 
cry  arose  from  the  crowd,  and  my  mother  groaned,  as  the 
dog,  espying  the  man  across  the  ditch,  rushed  down  one 
side  of  it  and  up  the  other,  to  attack  the  new  foe.  My 
father  held  his  hand  until  the  dog  was  within  a  few  feet 
of  him,  then  fired  with  steady  aim.  The  brute  rolled  over 
to  the  bottom  of  the  ditch — dead. 

That  evening  we  were  allowed  to  walk  down  the  field 
to  see  the  slaughtered  monster.  That  was  what  I  named 
him  to  myself,  and  forthwith  began  a  story  in  several 
chapters,  with  my  father  as  the  hero,  and  an  astonishing 
number  of  beasts  of  prey  as  dramatis  personce,  that  lasted 
me  for  many  a  night  thereafter. 

The  title  I  had  chosen  was  none  too  large  for  the  dog 
as  he  lay,  stark  and  still,  his  big  head  straight  with  his 
back,  his  teeth  showing  savagely  in  the  open  jaws.  A 
trickle  of  water  was  dammed  into  a  pool  by  his  huge  bulk. 

I  held  my  father's  hand  and  laid  my  cheek  to  it  in 
reverence  I  had  not  words  to  express,  when  my  mother 
said: 

"You  ran  a  terrible  risk,  love!  What  if  your  gun  had 
missed  fire,  or  you  had  not  hit  him?" 

"I  had  settled  all  that  in  my  mind.  I  should  have 
stood  my  ground  and  tried  to  brain  him  with  the  butt." 

"As  your  forefathers  did  to  the  British  at  Bunker  Hill!" 
exulted  I,  inwardly. 

Be  sure  the  sentence  was  not  uttered.  The  recollection 
of  the  inner  life,  in  which  I  was  wont  to  think  out  such 
sayings,  has  made  me  more  tolerant  with  so-called  priggish 
children  than  most  of  their  elders  are  prone  to  be. 

65 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

One  paragraph  of  our  next  letter  has  a  distinctly  modern 
flavor.  By  substituting  millions  for  thousands  in  the  esti- 
mate of  the  defalcation,  we  might  date  it  in  this  year  of 
our  Lord. 

"Richmond,  April  11th,  1839. 
"(Saturday  night.) 
"My  dear  Wife, — The  general  subject,  and,  in  fact,  the 
only  one  which  at  present  occupies  the  minds  of  the  citizens 
here,  is  the  late  discovery  of  defalcations  of  my  old  friend  D., 
first  teller  of  the  Bank  of  Virginia,  for  the  sum,  as  reports  say, 
of  nearly,  or  quite  half  a  million.  He  has  absconded,  but  some 
individuals  here  have  had  part  of  the  cash ;  among  the  number 
is  the  great  speculator,  W.  D.  G.,  who  has  ruined  and  also 
severely  injured  many  persons  in  this  place  by  borrowing,  or 
getting  them  to  endorse  for  him.  I  never  have  before  witness- 
ed so  general  an  excitement  here.  Mr.  G.  has  been  arrested 
to-day,  and  taken  before  the  mayor.  It  is  now  nine  o'clock, 
and  the  court  is  still  in  session.  It  is  probable  he  will  be  sent 
to  the  higher  court  for  trial,  etc.  I  expect  a  good  many  of 
our  plain  country  folks  will  be  afraid  of  Bank  of  Virginia 
notes  when  they  hear  of  the  loss.  I  hope  it  will  make  some  of 
them  shell  out  and  pay  me  all  that  they  owe.  I  should  like 
to  find  a  few  thousands  waiting  for  me  on  my  return  home. 
I  expect  to-morrow  to  attend  the  Sabbath'- school  at  the 
Second  Church,  conducted  by  Mr.  Reeve.  It  is  said  to  be  the 
best  school  in  the  city.  Tell  Herbert  I  have  bought  a  book 
called  Cobwebs  to  Catch  Flies,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  the  means 
of  catching  from  him  many  good  lessons.  He  must  learn 
fast,  as  I  have  bought  for  him  Sanford  and  Merton,  with  plates, 
and  when  he  can  read  he  shall  have  it  for  his  own.  May  I  not 
hope  for  a  letter  from  you  on  Tuesday  ? — for  it  seems  a  long 
time  since  we  parted." 

Mrs.  Bass,  the  meek  widow  of  a  Methodist  clergyman, 
succeeded  the  eighteen-year-old  girl  in  the  conduct  of  the 
neighborhood  school.  It  is  doubtful  if  we  learned  any- 
thing worth  relating  from  her.  I  am  sure  we  learned  noth- 
ing evil.     She  was  very  kind,  very  gentle,  very  devout;  she 

66 


A  WESLEYAN    SCHOOLMISTRESS 

wore  a  widow's  cap  and  a  bombazine  gown,  and  she  was  the 
only  woman  I  ever  heard  pray  until  I  was  over  fourteen 
years  of  age.  There  were  a  dozen  girls  in  the  class,  which 
met  in  a  one-roomed  building  in  a  lot  adjoining  her  garden. 
We  had  no  public  schools  at  that  date  in  Virginia.  We 
were  all  paid  pupils,  and  carefully  selected  from  families 
in  our  own  class.  Those  from  Presbyterian  families  out- 
numbered the  rest,  but  no  objection  was  made  by  our 
parents  to  the  "methods"  of  the  Wesleyan  relict.  The 
tenets  of  the  two  churches  were  the  same  in  the  main. 
Discrepancies  in  the  matter  of  free  agency,  predestination, 
and  falling  from  grace  were  adjudged  of  minor  importance 
in  the  present  case.  Mrs.  Bass  was  not  likely  to  trench 
upon  them  in  the  tuition  of  pupils  of  tender  age.  I  more 
than  suspect  that  there  would  have  been  a  strong  ob- 
jection made  to  intrusting  us  to  a  Baptist,  who  would  not 
lose  an  opportunity  of  inculcating  the  heresy  that  "  bap- 
tize" meant,  always  and  everywhere  in  the  Bible,  im- 
mersion. And  every  school  was  opened  daily  by  Bible- 
reading.  To  this  our  black-robed,  sweet-faced  instructress 
joined  audible  petitions,  and  in  our  reading  and  the  les- 
sons that  followed  she  let  slip  no  chance  of  working  in 
moral  and  religious  precepts. 

Let  one  example  suffice: 

One  of  our  recitations  was  spelling,  with  the  definitions, 
from  Walker's  Dictionary.  Betty  Mosby,  a  pretty  girl 
with  a  worldly  father  and  a  compliant  mother,  had  learned 
to  dance,  and  had  actually  attended  a  kind  of  "Hunt 
Ball,"  given  in  the  vicinity  by  her  father's  sister.  She 
had  descanted  volubly  upon  the  festivities  to  us  in  "play- 
times," describing  her  dress  and  the  number  of  dances  in 
which  she  figured  with  "grown-up  gentlemen,"  and  the 
hearts  of  her  listeners  burned  within  us  as  we  listened 
and  longed. 

On  this  day  the  word  "heaven"  fell  to  me  to  spell  and 

6  67 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

define.  This  done,  the  "improvement"  came  in  Mrs. 
Bass's  best  class-meeting  tone: 

"Heaven!  I  hope  and  pray  you  may  get  there,  Virginia! 
You  ought  not  to  fail  of  the  abundant  entrance,  for  your 
parents  are  devout  Christians  and  set  you  a  good  example, 
but  from  him  to  whom  much  is  given  shall  much  be 
required.     Next !     '  Heavenly !' " 

Near  the  foot  of  the  column  stood  ''Hell." 

Anne  Cams  rendered  it  with  modest  confidence,  spelling 
and  defining  in  a  subdued  tone  befitting  the  direful  mono- 
syllable. That  she  was  a  minister's  daughter  was  felt  by 
us  all  to  lend  her  a  purchase  in  handling  the  theme.  Mrs. 
Bass  was  not  to  be  cheated  of  her  "application  ": 

"Hell!"  she  iterated  in  accents  that  conveyed  the 
idea  of  recoiling  from  an  abyss.  "Ah — h — h!  I  wonder 
which  of  my  little  scholars  will  lie  down  in  everlasting 
burnings?" 

"Mercy!  I  hope  I  won't!"  cried  Betty  Mosby,  with  a 
shiver  of  well-acted  terror. 

She  was  a  born  sensationalist,  and  quick  to  voice  sensa- 
tion. 

The  teacher's  groan  was  that  of  the  trained  exhorter: 

"I  can't  answer  for  that,  Betty,  if  you  will  dance  and 
go  to  balls!" 

That  was  her  "Firstly,"  There  were  at  least  six  heads 
and  two  applications  in  the  lecture  "in  season"  trailing 
at  its  heels. 

We  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  Each  teacher  had 
ways  of  his,  and  her  own.  Those  of  our  relict  were  inno- 
cent, and  our  parents  did  not  intermeddle.  We  were  very 
happy  under  her  tutelage.  On  Saturdays  she  had  a  class 
in  "theorem  painting."  That  was  what  she  called  it,  and 
we  thought  it  a  high-sounding  title.  Decorators  know  it 
as  one  style  of  frescoing.  Pinks,  roses,  dahlias,  tulips,  and 
other  flowers  with  well-defined  petals,  also  birds  and  but- 

68 


A   WESLEYAN    SCHOOLMISTRESS 

terflies,  were  cut  out  of  oiled  paper.  Through  the  open- 
ings left  by  removing  the  outlined  pattern,  paint  was 
rubbed  upon  card-board  laid  underneath  the  oiled  paper. 
I  have  somewhere  still  a  brick-red  pink  thus  transferred 
to  bristol-board — a  fearful  production.  I  knew  no  bet- 
ter than  to  accept  it  thankfully  when  Mrs.  Bass  had 
written  on  the  back,  "To  my  dear  pupil,  M.  V.  H.,  from 
her  affectionate  Teacher,"  and  gave  it  to  me  with  a  kiss 
on  the  last  day  of  the  term. 

She  gave  up  the  school  and  left  the  county  at  the  close 
of  that  term,  going  to  live  with  a  brother  in  another  part 
of  the  State.  I  heard,  several  years  later,  that  she  had 
"professed  sanctification  "  at  a  Lynchburg  camp-meeting. 
Nowadays,  they  would  say  she  "had  entered  upon  the 
Higher  Life." 

She  must  have  found,  long  ago,  the  abundant  entrance 
into  that  Highest  Life  where  creeds  and  threatenings  are 
abolished.  Her  benign  administration  was  to  me  a  sum- 
mer calm  that  held  no  presage  of  the  morrow's  storm. 


VII 

MY   FIRST  TUTOR — THE   REIGN   OF  TERROR 

Late  in  the  October  vacation  the  tranquil  routine  of 
our  household  was  stirred  by  news  of  import  to  us  children. 
We  were  to  have  a  tutor  of  our  own,  and  a  school-room 
under  our  roof  in  true  Old  Virginia  style — a  fashion  trans- 
planted from  the  mother-country,  eight  generations  before. 

Our  father  "did  not  believe  in  boarding-schools,"  hold- 
ing that  parents  shirked  a  sacred  duty  in  putting  the 
moral  and  mental  training  of  their  offspring  into  the  hands 
of  hirelings,  and  sending  them  away  from  home  at  the 
formative  age,  just  when  girls  and  boys  are  most  in  need 
of  the  mother's  love  and  watchful  care  of  their  health  and 
principles.  Yet  he  fully  appreciated  the  deficiencies  of 
the  small  private  schools  we  had  attended,  and  would  not 
hearken  for  a  moment  to  the  suggestion  that  we  should  be 
entered  as  day-scholars  in  the  "Old-Field  School,"  which 
prefigured  the  Co-educational  Institute  of  to-day.  "Nice" 
girls  and  well-born  boys  attended  a  school  of  this  kind, 
and  lads  were  prepared  for  college  there.  The  master  was 
himself  a  college  graduate.  And  the  school  was  within 
easy  distance  of  Scottville. 

"Too  much  of  an  omnium  gatherum  to  suit  my  taste!" 
I  had  overheard  my  father  say  to  a  friend  who  urged 
the  advantages  of  this  place,  adding  that  B.  L.  was  "  a 
good  teacher  and  fair  classical  scholar."  "He  may  be 
proficient  in  the  classics,  but  he  spells  the  name  of  one 
dead  language,  'Latten.'    I  saw  it  in  his  own  handwriting. 

70 


MY    FIRST    TUTOR 

I  doubt  not  that  he  can  parse  in  that  tongue.  /  believe 
him  capable  of  talking  of  the  'three  R's.'  My  children 
may  never  become  accomplished,  but  they  shall  be  able 
to  write  and  speak — and  spell — their  mother-tongue  cor- 
rectly!" 

Besides  Mea  and  myself  there  were  to  be  in  the  home- 
class  ten  other  pupils,  the  daughters  of  personal  friends  of 
like  mind  with  the  independent  thinker,  and  my  brother 
Herbert,  lately  inducted  into  the  integuments  distinctive 
of  his  sex,  was  to  have  his  trial  taste  of  schooling.  Our 
mother  had  taught  us  all  to  read  and  to  write  before  com- 
mitting our  scholastic  education  to  other  hands.  I  fancy 
we  may  attribute  to  her  training  in  the  rudiments  of  learn- 
ing the  gratifying  circumstance  that  one  and  all  of  her 
children  have  spelled — as  did  both  parents — with  absolute 
correctness. 

The  big  dining-room  in  the  left  wing  of  the  rambling 
house  to  which  we  had  removed  from  Bellevue  when  the 
owner  desired  to  take  possession  of  it,  was  to  be  divided 
by  a  partition  into  school-room  and  hall;  a  room  opening 
from  the  former  would  be  the  tutor's  chamber,  and  an 
apartment  in  another  wing  was  to  be  the  dining-room. 
Among  other  charming  changes  in  house  and  family, 
Dorinda  Moody,  a  ward  of  my  father's  of  whom  I  was  par- 
ticularly fond,  was  to  live  with  us  and  attend  "our  school." 

I  trod  upon  air  all  day  long,  and  dismissed  the  fairy 
and  wonder  tales,  with  which  I  was  wont  to  dream  myself 
to  sleep  nightly,  for  visions  of  the  real  and  present.  "Our 
Tutor" — a  title  I  rolled  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  my  rest- 
less tongue — was  a  divinity  student  from  Union  Theological 
Seminary,  in  Prince  Edward  County.  The  widow  of  the 
founder  of  this  school  of  the  prophets,  and  the  former 
pastor  of  my  parents,  lived  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  the  seminary,  and  was  the  intermediary  in  the  trans- 
action.    Through  her  my  father  was  put  into  communi- 

71 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

cation  with  the  faculty — scholars  and  gentlemen  all  of 
them!! — who  agreed  in  recommending  the  student  whom 
I  have  dubbed  "Mr.  Tayloe"  in  my  Old-Field  School-Girl. 
(The  significance  of  the  twin  exclamation-points  will  be 
manifest  in  the  next  few  pages.) 

The  sun  had  shivered  out  of  sight  below  the  horizon  on 
a  raw  November  day  when  I  returned  home  after  a  tramp 
over  soaked  and  sere  fields,  attended  by  my  young  maid 
and  her  elder  sister — "bright"  mulattoes — and  was  met 
in  the  end-porch  by  their  mother,  my  mother's  personal 
attendant  and  the  supervisor  of  nursery-tenants.  She  was 
the  prettiest  mulatto  I  have  ever  seen,  owing  her  regular 
features  and  long  hair,  as  she  was  proud  of  telling,  to  an 
Indian  ancestor.  He  had  entailed  upon  her  the  additional 
bequest  of  a  peppery  temper,  and  it  was  on  deck  now.  She 
was  full  of  bustle  and  tartly  consequential. 

"Lordy,  Miss  Virginny!  whar  have  you  been  traipsin' 
so  late  with  jus'  these  chillun  to  look  after  you?  It's 
pretty  nigh  plum  dark,  an'  you,  a  young  lady,  cavortin' 
roun'  the  country  like  a  tom-boy!" 

She  hauled  me  into  the  house  while  she  talked,  and 
pulled  off  my  shawl  and  hood,  scolding  vehemently  at  the 
sight  of  my  muddy  shoes,  and  promising  Molly  and  Paulina 
a  whipping  apiece  for  not  bringing  me  back  sooner. 

I  cared  not  one  whit  for  her  scolding  after  I  heard  the 
news  with  which  she  was  laden. 

Mr.  Tayloe  had  come !  My  dream-castle  had  settled  into 
stability  upon  rock  bottom. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  the  school-room  door  was  pushed 
open  timidly,  and  a  childish  figure  appeared  upon  the 
threshold.  I  was  rather  tall  for  my  years,  and  as  lean 
and  lithe  as  a  greyhound.  My  touzled  hair  had  been  wet 
and  sleeked  by  Mary  Anne's  vigorous  fingers.  I  wore  a 
brown  "Circassian"  frock  and  a  spandy  clean  white  apron. 
The   room   was   comfortably   furnished   with   desks   and 

72 


MY    FIRST    TUTOR 

chairs,  now  pushed  to  the  wall,  the  carpeted  area  about 
the  hearth  being  intended  as  a  sitting-room  for  the  tutor. 
There  were  a  table,  a  desk,  and  four  or  five  chairs.  The 
room  was  bright  with  lamp  and  firelight.  In  front  of  the 
red  hearth  sat  my  father  and  a  much  smaller  man. 

His  diminutive  stature  was  the  first  of  a  series  of  shocks 
I  was  destined  to  receive.  I  had  expected  him  to  be  tall 
and  stately.  Village  wags — with  none  of  whom  he  was 
popular — spread  the  story  that  he  intermitted  his  studies 
for  a  year  in  the  hope  that  in  the  interim  he  might  grow 
tall  enough  to  see  over  the  front  of  a  pulpit. 

My  father  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Come  in,  my  daughter,"  in  kindly,  hearty  accents. 
And,  as  I  obeyed,  "Mr.  Tayloe,  this  is  my  second  daughter 
— Miss  Mary  Virginia." 

The  hero  of  my  dreams  did  not  rise.  There  was  naught 
amiss  or  unusual  in  the  manner  of  the  introduction.  I 
was  "Miss  Virginia"  to  men  of  my  father's  age,  as  to 
youths  and  boys.  I  was  used  to  see  them  get  up  from 
their  seats  to  speak  to  me,  as  to  a  woman  of  treble  my 
years.  I  looked,  then,  almost  aghast  at  the  man  who  let 
me  walk  up  to  him  and  offer  my  hand  before  he  made 
any  motion  in  recognition  of  the  unimportant  fact  of  my 
presence.  His  legs  were  crossed;  his  hands,  the  palms 
laid  lightly  together,  were  tucked  between  his  legs.  He 
pulled  one  out  to  meet  mine,  touched  my  fingers  coldly, 
and  tucked  both  hands  back  as  before. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tayloe?"  quoth  I,  primly  respect- 
ful, as  I  had  been  trained  to  comport  myself  with  strangers. 

He  grunted  something  syllabic  in  response,  and,  chilled 
to  the  backbone  of  my  being,  I  retreated  to  the  shadow  of 
my  father's  broad  shoulder.  He  passed  his  arm  about  me 
and  stroked  what  he  used  to  call  my  "Shetland  pony 
mane."    He  seldom  praised  any  one  of  us  openly,  but  he 

73 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  a  fond  father,  and  he  and  the  "torn-boy"  were  close 
comrades. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  find  this  young  lady  stupid,  Mr. 
Tayloe,"  he  went  on,  the  strong,  tender  hand  still  smooth- 
ing the  rebellious  locks.  "She  is  a  bit  flighty  sometimes, 
but  she  has  packed  away  a  good  deal  of  miscellaneous  in- 
formation in  this  curly  pate.  I  hope  she  may  become  a 
steady  student  under  your  care.  What  she  needs  is  ap- 
plication." 

Receiving  no  answer  beyond  a  variation  of  the  grunt, 
the  tutor  staring  all  the  time  into  the  heart  of  the  fire,  the 
dear  man  went  on  to  tell  of  books  that  had  been  read  aloud 
in  the  family,  as  a  supplementary  course  to  what  we  had 
learned  in  school,  referring  to  me  now  and  then  when  he 
did  not  recall  title  or  subject.  I  fancy,  now,  that  he  did 
this  to  rid  us  both  of  the  embarrassment  of  the  first  inter- 
view, and  to  draw  out  the  taciturn  stranger  who  was  to 
guide  my  mind  in  future.  Loyal  as  was  my  worshipful 
admiration  of  my  father,  I  could  not  but  feel,  although 
I  could  not  have  formulated  the  thought,  that  the  trend  of 
talk  was  not  tactful. 

Nevertheless,  I  glowed  inwardly  with  indignation  that 
the  third  person  present  never  once  took  his  eyes  from 
the  roaring  fire,  and  that  his  face,  round,  fair,  and  almost 
boyish  in  contour,  wore  a  slight  smile,  rather  supercilious 
than  amused,  his  brows  knitting  above  the  smile  in  a 
fashion  I  was  to  know  more  of  in  the  next  ten  months. 

I  have  drawn  Mr.  Tayloe's  portrait  at  full  length  in  An 
Old-Field  School-Girl,  and  I  need  not  waste  time  and  ner- 
vous tissue  in  repetition  of  the  unlovely  picture.  He  was 
the  Evil  Genius  of  my  childhood,  and  the  term  of  his  tute- 
lage may  be  called  the  dark  underside  of  an  otherwise 
happy  school-life.  Looking  back  from  the  unclouded 
heights  of  mature  age,  I  see  that  my  childish  valuation  of 
him  was  correct.    He  was,  in  his  association  with  all  with- 

74 


MY    FIRST    TUTOR 

out  the  walls  of  the  school-room — always  excepting  the 
servants,  who  took  his  measure  amazingly  soon — a  gentle- 
man in  bearing  and  speech.  He  was,  I  have  heard,  well- 
born. He  had  gained  rank  as  a  student  in  the  university 
of  which  he  was  a  graduate. 

At  heart  and  in  grain  he  was  a  coarse,  cruel  tyrant, 
beloved  by  none  of  his  pupils,  hated  by  my  brother  Her- 
bert and  myself  with  an  intensity  hardly  conceivable  in 
children  of  our  tender  years.  I  owe  him  one  evil  debt  I 
can  never  forget.  Up  to  now  I  had  had  my  little  gusts  of 
temper  and  fleeting  grudges  against  those  who  angered 
me.  Save  for  the  episode  of  the  doll-whipping  recorded  in 
an  earlier  chapter,  I  had  never  cherished — if  I  had  felt — 
an  emotion  of  vindictiveness  or  a  desire  for  revenge.  This 
man — this  embryo  minister  of  the  gospel  of  love  and 
peace — aroused  in  me  passions  that  had  slumbered  un- 
suspected by  all — most  of  all,  by  myself. 

From  the  beginning  he  disliked  me.  Perhaps  because  he 
chose  to  assume,  from  the  manner  of  my  introduction  to 
him,  that  I  was  a  spoiled,  conceited  child  who  ought  to  be 
"taken  down."  Perhaps  because,  while  I  flushed  up 
hotly  under  rebuke  and  sarcasms  that  entered  lavishly 
into  the  process  of  "taking  down,"  I  never  broke  down 
abjectly  under  these,  after  the  manner  of  other  pupils. 
Our  father  had  the  true  masculine  dislike  for  womanish 
tears.  He  had  drilled  us  from  babyhood  to  restrain  the 
impulse  to  cry.  Many  a  time  I  was  sent  from  the  table 
or  room  when  my  eyes  filled,  with  the  stern  injunction, 
"Go  to  your  room  and  stay  there  until  you  can  control 
yourself!"  I  thought  it  harsh  treatment,  then.  I  have 
thanked  and  blessed  him  for  the  discipline  a  thousand 
times  since.  Our  tutor,  I  verily  believed  then,  and  I  do 
not  doubt  now,  gloated  in  the  sight  of  the  sufferings 
wrought  by  his  brutality.  I  can  give  it  no  milder  name. 
I  have  seen  him  smile — a  tigerish  gleam — when  he  had 

75 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

scolded  the  ten  outsiders — the  "externes,"  as  the  French 
call  them — into  convulsive  weeping.  Mea  and  I  felt  the 
lash  of  his  tongue  quite  as  keenly  as  the  rest,  but  our  home- 
drill  stood  us  in  good  stead. 

He  rarely  found  fault  with  her„  She  was  a  comely  girl, 
nearly  fourteen,  and  womanly  for  that  age,  exemplary  in 
deportment,  and  an  excellent  student.  It  could  never  be 
said  of  her  that  she  "lacked  application."  If  one  thing 
were  more  hateful  to  me  than  his  surliness  and  sneers  to 
me,  it  was  his  cubbish  gallantry  to  my  pretty  sister.  He 
pronounced  her  openly  the  most  promising  of  his  scholars, 
and  volunteered  to  give  her  private  lessons  in  botany. 
Such  tokens  of  preference  may  have  been  the  proof  of  a 
nascent  attachment  on  his  part,  or  but  another  of  his 
honorable  ways  of  amusing  himself.  It  was  a  genuine 
comfort  to  me  to  see  that  she  met  his  gallantries  with 
quiet  self  -  possession  and  cool  indifference  remarkable  in 
a  country  girl  who  knew  nothing  of  "society"  and  flirta- 
'tion. 

I  was  the  black  sheep  of  the  flock,  as  he  took  pains  to 
say  twice  or  a  dozen  times  a  week,  in  the  hearing  of  the 
school.  To  me  he  imparted  privately  the  agreeable  in- 
formation that  I  "would  never  be  anything  but  a  disgrace 
to  my  parents;  that,  in  spite  of  what  my  father  might 
say  to  the  contrary,  I  was  stupid  by  nature  and  incor- 
rigibly lazy."  He  rang  the  changes  upon  that  first  unfor- 
tunate interview  until  I  was  goaded  to  dumb  frenzy.  The 
persecution,  begun  with  the  opening  day  of  the  term,  was 
never  abated.  He  would  overhear  from  his  chamber  win- 
dow snatches  of  talk  between  my  mates  and  myself,  as  we 
played  or  sat  in  the  garden  below — merry,  flippant  noth- 
ings, as  harmless  as  the  twitter  of  the  birds  in  the  trees 
over  our  heads.  When  we  were  reassembled  in  the  school- 
room he  would  make  my  part  in  the  prattle  the  text  of 
a  lecture  ten  minutes  long,  holding  the  astonished,  quiver- 

76 


MY    FIRST    TUTOR 

ing  child  up  to  ridicule,  or  stinging  her  to  the  quick  with 
invectives.  When  he  lost  his  temper — which  happened 
often — he  spared  nobody.  He  went  out  of  his  way  to 
attack  me.  Lest  this  should  read  like  the  exaggeration 
of  fancied  slights  to  the  self-willed,  pert  youngling  he  be- 
lieved me  to  be,  let  me  cull  one  or  two  sprigs  of  rue  from 
the  lush  growth  that  embittered  ten  months  of  my  exist- 
ence: 

I  cut  my  finger  to  the  bone  one  morning  (I  carry  the 
scar  still) .  My  mother  bound  it  up  in  haste,  for  the  school- 
bell  was  ringing.  I  got  into  my  seat  just  in  time  for  the 
opening  exercises.  A  chapter  was  read — verse  by  verse — 
in  turn  by  the  pupils,  after  which  the  prospective  divine 
"offered"  a  prayer.  He  stood  with  his  eyes  shut  and  his 
forehead  knitted  into  a  frown.  We  knelt  with  our  backs 
to  him  before  our  chairs  around  the  room.  It  seems  but 
natural  to  me,  in  reflecting  upon  that  perfunctory  "exer- 
cise," that  our  reading  "in  course"  should  never,  during 
Mr.  Tayloe's  reign,  have  gone  beyond  the  Old  Testament. 
We  read  that  exactly  as  it  came — word  for  word.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  New  Testament  in  his  walk  or  con- 
versation. 

On  this  day  we  had  a  chapter  in  Kings — First  or  Second 
— in  which  occurred  a  verse  my  father  would  have  skipped 
quietly  at  our  family  worship.  Sarah  L.  was  the  big- 
gest girl  in  the  class — in  her  sixteenth  year,  and  quite 
grown  up.  She  dexterously  slipped  past  the  bit  of  Bible 
history,  taking  the  next  verse,  as  if  by  accident. 

"Go  back  and  read  your  verse!"  thundered  the  young 
theologue.     "I  will  have  no  false  modesty  in  my  school." 

My  cheeks  flamed  as  redly  with  anger  as  Sarah's  had 
with  maiden  shame,  as  I  followed  suit  with  the  next  pas- 
sage. I  resented  the  coarse  insult  to  a  decent  girl,  and 
the  manner  thereof.  I  was  faint  with  the  pain  of  the 
wounded  finger,  and  altogether  so  unnerved  that  my  voice 

77 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

shook  and  fell  below  the  pitch  at  which  we  were  taught  to 
read  aloud. 

Out  barked  the  bulldog  again  over  the  top  of  the  open 
Bible  he  held : 

"What  ails  Miss  High-and-Mighty  to-day?  In  one  of 
your  tantrums,  I  see.  Read  that  verse  again,  and  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  somebody  besides  vour  charming 
self!" 

Where — will  be  asked  by  the  twentieth-century  reader — 
was  parental  affection  all  this  while?  How  could  a  fear- 
less gentleman  like  your  father  submit  for  an  hour  to  the 
maltreatment  of  his  young  daughter  and  the  daughters  of 
friends  who  confided  in  his  choice  of  a  tutor? 

My  answer  is  direct.  We  never  reported  the  worst  of 
our  wrongs  to  our  parents.  To  "tell  tales  out  of  school" 
in  that  generation  was  an  offence  the  enormity  of  which  I 
cannot  make  the  modern  student  comprehend.  It  was  a 
flagrant  misdemeanor,  condemned  by  tradition,  by  parental 
admonition,  and  by  a  code  of  honor  accepted  by  us  all. 
I  have  known  pupils  to  be  expelled  for  daring  to  report 
at  home  the  secrets  of  what  was  a  prison-house  for  three- 
fourths  of  every  working-day.  And — strangest  of  all — 
their  mates  thenceforward  shunned  the  tale-tellers  as  sin- 
ners against  scholastic  and  social  laws. 

"If  you  get  a  flogging  at  school,  you  will  get  another  at 
home!"  was  a  stock  threat  that  set  the  seal  of  silence  upon 
the  culprit's  lips.  To  carry  home  the  tale  of  unjust  punish- 
ment meted  out  to  a  school-fellow  would  be  a  gross  breach 
of  honorable  usage. 

The  whole  system  smacked  of  inquisitorial  methods,  and 
gave  the  reactionary  impetus  to  the  pendulum  in  the  mat- 
ter of  family  discipline  and  school  jurisdiction  which 
helped  on  the  coming  of  the  Children's  Age  in  which  we 
now  live. 

The  despotism  of  that  direful  period,  full  of  portents 

78 


THE    REIGN    OF    TERROR 

and  pain,  may  have  taught  me  fortitude.  It  awoke  me 
to  the  possibilities  of  evil  hitherto  undreamed  of  in  my 
sunny  life.  I  have  lain  awake  late  into  the  night,  again 
and  again,  smarting  in  the  review  of  the  day's  injuries, 
and  dreading  what  the  morrow  might  bring  of  malicious 
injustice  and  overt  insult,  and  cudgelling  my  hot  brain  to 
devise  some  method  of  revenge  upon  my  tormentor. 
Childish  schemes,  all  of  them,  but  the  noxious  seed  was  one 
with  that  which  ripens  into  murder  in  the  first  degree. 

One  absurd  device  that  haunted  and  tempted  me  for 
weeks  was  that  I  should  steal  into  the  tutor's  room  some 
day,  when  he  had  gone  to  ride  or  walk,  and  strew  chopped 
horsehair  between  the  sheets.  The  one  obstacle  to  the 
successful  prosecution  of  the  scheme  was  that  we  had  no 
white  horses.  Ours  were  dark  bay  and  "  blooded  chestnut." 
No  matter  how  finely  I  might  chop  the  hairs,  which  would 
prick  like  pins  and  bite  like  fleas,  the  color  would  make 
them  visible  when  the  sheets  were  turned  down. 

It  was  a  crime! — this  initiation  of  a  mere  infant  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  innate  possibilities  of  evil  in  human  nature. 
I  had  learned  to  hate  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  In  all 
my  childish  quarrels  I  had  never  felt  the  temptation  to 
lift  my  hand  against  a  playmate.  I  understood  now  that 
I  could  smite  this  tyrant  to  the  earth  if  I  had  the  power 
and  the  opportunity.  This  lesson  I  can  never  forget,  or 
forgive  him  who  taught  it  to  me.  It  was  a  new  and  a  soiled 
page  in  the  book  of  experience. 

Despite  the  continual  discouragement  that  attended  the 
effort  to  keep  my  promise  to  study  diligently,  I  worked 
hard  in  school,  partly  from  love  of  learning,  partly  to 
please  my  parents — chiefly,  it  must  be  confessed,  because 
I  shrank,  as  from  the  cut  of  a  cowhide,  from  the  pitiless 
ridicule  and  abuse  that  followed  upon  the  least  lapse 
from  absolute  perfection  in  recitation. 

Mathematics  was  never  my  strong  point,  and  the  tutor 

79 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

quickly  detected  this  one  of  many  weak  joints  in  my 
armor.  There  was  meaning  in  the  grin  with  which  he  in- 
formed me  one  day,  not  long  after  Christmas,  that  he  had 
set  a  test-sum  for  each  of  the  second  class  in  arithmetic. 

"If  you  can  do  that  sum  without,  any,  help,  from,  any- 
body," slowly,  the  grin  widening  at  each  comma,  "you 
may  go  on  with  the  next  chapter  in  arithmetic.  If  not, 
you  will  be  turned  back  to  Simple  Division.  Of  course, 
you  will  do  yours,  if  nobody  else  can  work  out  the  answer!" 

Sneer  and  taunt  stung  and  burned,  as  he  meant  they 
should.  I  took  the  slate  from  his  hand,  and  carried  it  to 
my  desk  before  glancing  at  it.  It  was  a  horrible  sum !  I 
knew  it  would  be,  and  I  forthwith  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  try  to  do  it.  He  might  turn  me  back  to  Addition,  for 
all  I  cared.  The  worm  had  turned  and  stiffened  in  stub- 
born protest. 

At  recess  I  discovered  that  not  another  girl  of  the  six 
in  our  class  had  an  imposition  half  so  severe  as  my  enemy 
had  set  for  me.  The  effect  was  totally  unlike  what  he  had 
anticipated.  My  spirit  leaped  to  arms.  I  would  do  that 
sum  and  keep  up  with  my  class — or  die! 

I  bore  the  slate  off  to  my  room  as  soon  as  school  was  out 
that  afternoon,  and  wrought  mightily  upon  the  task  until 
the  supper-bell  rang.  My  work  covered  both  sides  of  the 
slate,  and  after  supper  I  waylaid  my  sister  in  the  hall  and 
begged  her  to  look  at  what  I  had  done.  She  was  the  crack 
arithmetician  of  the  school,  and  I  could  trust  her  decision. 
She  sat  down  upon  the  stairs — I  standing,  wretched  and 
suspenseful,  beside  her — and  went  patiently  over  it  all. 

Then  she  said,  gently  and  regretfully:  "No,  it  is  not 
right.  I  can't,  of  course,  tell  you  what  is  wrong,  but  you 
have  made  a  mistake." 

With  a  hot  lump  in  my  throat  I  would  not  let  break  into 
tears,  I  rushed  off  up-stairs,  rubbed  out  ever}'-  figure  of 
my  making,  and  fell  to  work  anew  upon  the  original  ex- 

80 


THE    REIGN    OF    TERROR 

ample.  Except  when  I  obeyed  the  summons  to  prayers, 
I  appeared  no  more  below  that  night.  My  sister  found  me 
bent  over  the  slate  when  she  came  up  to  bed,  and  said  not 
a  word  to  distract  my  attention.  By  ten  o'clock  the  room 
was  so  cold  that  I  got  an  old  Scotch  plaid  of  my  father's 
from  the  closet,  and  wrapped  myself  in  it.  Still,  my  limbs 
were  numb  and  my  teeth  chattered  when,  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  I  laid  the  slate  by,  in  the  joyous  conviction 
that  I  had  conquered  in  the  fight.  I  had  invented  a  proof- 
method  of  my  own — truly  ingenious  in  a  child  with  no 
turn  for  mathematics— but  this  I  did  not  suspect.  I  hon- 
estly believed,  instead,  that  it  was  an  inspiration  from  Him 
to  whom  I  had  been  praying  through  all  the  hours  of  ag- 
onized endeavor.     I  thanked  the  Author  before  I  slept. 

When  the  class  was  called  upon  to  show  their  sums 
next  morning,  it  appeared,  to  my  unspeakable  amazement 
and  rapture;  that  my  example  and  one  other — that  done 
by  Sarah  L.,  who  was  backward  in  figures,  although  ad- 
vanced in  years — were  right,  and  all  the  others  wrong. 

The  gentle  shepherd  of  our  fold  took  up  my  slate  again 
when  the  examination  was  over,  and  eyed  it  sourly,  his 
head  on  one  side,  his  fingers  plucking  at  his  lower  lip,  a 
trick  which  I  knew  prefaced  something  particularly  spite- 
ful. Surely  I  had  nothing  to  fear  now?  Having  wrung 
from  him  the  reluctant  admission  that  my  work  was  cor- 
rect, I  might  rest  upon  my  laurels. 

I  had  underrated  his  capacity  for  evil-doing.  When  he 
glared  at  me  over  the  upper  frame  of  the  big  slate,  the 
too-familiar  heart-nausea  got  hold  upon  me. 

"You" — he  seldom  deigned  to  address  me  by  my 
proper  name — "pretend  to  tell  me  that  nobody  helped 
you  with  this  sum?" 

"Nobody!"  I  uttered,  made  bold  by  innocence. 

"Ha-a-a-a!"  malevolence  triumphant  in  the  drawl  wax- 
ing into  a  snarl.     "As  I  happened  to  see  you  and  your 

81 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

sister  last  night  in  the  hall,  and  heard  you  ask  her  to  show 
you  how  to  do  it,  that  tale  won't  go  down,  my  lady." 

"She  didn't  help  me—"  I  began,  eagerly. 

"Silence!"  thumping  the  slate  upon  the  table,  and  scowl- 
ing ferociously.     "How  dare  you  lie  to  me?" 

I  glanced  at  Mea  in  an  agony.  She  arose  in  her  place, 
pale  to  the  lips,  albeit  she  had  never  felt  his  wrath,  but 
her  voice  was  firm: 

"I  only  told  her  the  sum  was  not  right.  I  did  not  tell 
her  what  part  of  it  was  wrong." 

The  blending  of  snarl  and  smile  was  something  to  be 
recollected  for  all  time.  The  smile  was  for  her,  the  snarl 
for  me. 

"It  is  natural  that  your  sister  should  try  to  defend 
you.  But  will  you  please  tell  me,  Miss  Pert,  what  more 
help  you  could  have  wanted  than  to  be  told  by  somebody 
who  knew — as  your  sister  did — that  your  sum  was  wrong? 
Of  course,  you  could  rub  out  and  begin  again.  But  for 
her  you  would  not  have  tried  a  second  time.  Bring  that 
sponge  here!" 

I  obeyed. 

"Take  that  slate!" 

He  made  as  if  he  would  not  contaminate  his  hand  by 
passing  it  to  me,  laying  it  on  the  table  and  pointing  a  dis- 
dainful finger  at  it. 

Again  I  obeyed. 

"  Now,  Miss  Deceitful,  wipe  every  figure  off  that  slate,  and 
never  try  any  such  cock-and-bull  story  upon  me  again  as 
long  as  you  live !  I  am  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with 
your  chaff!" 

He  laughed  aloud  in  savage  glee,  dismissed  the  class 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  and  called  up  the  next. 

I  was  turned  back  to  Short  Division,  with  the  added 
stigma  of  intentional  deception  and  cheating  shadowing 
me. 

82 


THE    REIGN    OF    TERROR 

Nearly  fifteen  years  after  our  first  tutor  withdrew  his 
baleful  presence  from  our  home,  my  husband  was  urging 
upon  my  brother  Herbert  the  claims  of  the  ministry  of 
reconciliation  as  the  profession  to  which  the  younger  man 
was  evidently  called  by  nature  and  by  Providence.  Her- 
bert looked  up  with  the  frank  smile  those  who  knew  him 
will  never  forget.  It  was  like  the  clear  shining  of  the 
sweetest  and  purest  soul  ever  committed  to  mortal  keeping. 

"' Plato!  thou  reasonest  well!'  There  is  but  one  argu- 
ment you  have  not  bowled  over.  I  registered  an  oath — as 
bitter  as  that  Hamilcar  exacted  of  Hannibal — when  I  was 
a  boy,  that  I  would  thrash  that  cur  Tayloe  within  an  inch 
of  his  life  as  soon  as  I  should  be  big  enough  to  do  it.  And 
it  wouldn't  be  quite  the  thing  to  flog  a  brother  clergyman. 
If  anything  could  keep  me  out  of  the  pulpit,  it  would  be 
the  fact  that  he  is  in  it.  That  fellow's  cruelties  scarred 
my  memory  for  life,  although  I  was  not  seven  years  old 
when  I  knew  him." 

In  dismissing  the  disagreeable  theme,  I  offer  this  bit  of 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  my  story  of  the  reign  of  terror 
neither  of  us  ever  forgave. 
7 


VIII 


CALM  AFTER  STORM — OUR  HANDSOME  YANKEE  GOVERNESS — 
THE     NASCENT    AUTHOR 

Among  the  treasured  relics  of  my  youth  is  a  steel  en- 
graving in  a  style  fashionable  sixty  years  agone. 

It  appeared  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  then  in  the  heyday 
of  well-merited  popularity.  My  mother  was  one  of  the 
earliest  subscribers.  Every  number  was  read  aloud  in  the 
family  circle  gathered  on  cool  evenings  about  my  mother's 
work-stand.  We  had  no  ready-made  furniture.  This  piece 
was  made  to  order,  of  solid  mahogany,  and  is,  in  the  seventy- 
fifth  year  of  a  blameless  life,  in  active  use  in  my  eldest 
daughter's  household. 

Cousin  Mary,  living  on  Erin  Hill,  in  her  stepfather's 
house,  took  Graham's  Magazine — Godey's  only  rival.  She 
likewise  subscribed  for  the  Saturday  Evening  Courier,  and 
exchanged  it  regularly  with  my  mother  for  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post — all  published  in  Philadelphia.  The  New 
York  Mirror,  edited  by  N.  P.  Willis,  George  P.  Morris,  and 
Theodore  S.  Fay,  was  another  welcome  guest  in  both 
families.  For  Sunday  reading  we  had  the  New  York 
Observer,  The  Watchman  and  Observer,  The  Presbyterian — 
religious  weeklies  that  circulated  in  the  neighborhood  for 
a  fortnight,  and  were  then  filed  for  future  reference.  We 
children  had  Parley's  Magazine  sent  to  us,  as  long  ago  as 
I  can  recollect,  by  our  grandmother.  After  the  death  of 
her  second  husband,  the  good  old  deacon,  and  her  removal 
to  Virginia,  which  events  were  coeval  with  the  Tayloe 
dynasty,  our  father  subscribed  for  Parley's. 

84 


CALM    AFTER    STORM 

We  had  all  the  new  books  that  he  adjudged  to  be 
worth  buying  and  reading,  watching  eagerly  for  any- 
thing from  Dickens,  Marryat,  and  Cooper,  and  devouring 
with  avidity  not  excited  by  any  novel,  Stephens's  Travels 
in  Arabia  Petrea  and  in  Central  America,  Bruce's  Travels 
in  Abyssinia,  and  the  no  less  enchanting  tales  Mungo  Park 
was  telling  the  world  of  his  adventures  in  the  Dark  Con- 
tinent. 

"The  chamber"  was  a  big  room  on  the  first  floor,  and 
adjoined  the  dining-room — so  big  that  the  wide  high- 
poster,  curtained  and  ceiled  with  gayly  figured  chintz,  in 
a  far  corner,  left  three-fourths  of  the  floor-space  unoccu- 
pied. My  mother's  bureau  (another  heirloom)  looked 
small  beside  the  bed;  a  lounge  was  between  the  front 
windows;  rocking-chairs  stood  here  and  there;  thick  cur- 
tains, matching  the  bed-hangings,  shut  out  wintry  gusts, 
and  a  great  wood  fire  leaped  and  laughed  upon  the  pipe- 
clayed hearth  from  the  first  of  November  to  the  middle  of 
March.  A  blaze  of  dry  sticks  was  kindled  there  every 
morning  and  evening  up  to  July  4th.  The  younger 
children  were  dressed  and  undressed  there  on  cool  days. 
Our  mother  held,  in  advance  of  her  contemporaries,  that 
an  open  fire  was  a  germ-killer. 

Why  do  I  single  out  that  particular  engraving  for  a  place 
in  these  reminiscences? 

It  graced  the  first  page  of  the  November  number  of 
Godey's  Lady's  Book.  The  evening  was  wild  with  wind 
and  blustering  rain,  the  fire  roaring  defiance  as  the  loosely 
fitting  sashes  rattled  and  the  showers  lashed  the  panes. 
There  were  five  of  us  girls,  and  each  had  some  bit  of  handi- 
work. To  sit  idle  while  the  reading  went  on  was  almost 
a  misdemeanor. 

Dorinda  Moody,  Virginia  Lee  Patterson,  Musidora  Owen, 
Mea,  and  myself  were  classmates  and  cronies.  My  mother 
was    reader   that   evening,  and  as  she  opened  the  mag- 

85 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

azine  at  the  frontispiece,  Virginia  Patterson  and  I  called 
out: 

"Why,  that  is  a  picture  of  Miss  Wilson!" 

We  all  leaned  over  the  stand  to  look  at  the  engraving, 
which  my  mother  held  up  to  general  view. 

"It  is  like  her!"  she  assented. 

The  young  lady  across  the  table  blushed  brightly  in 
uttering  a  laughing  disclaimer,  and  my  mother  proceeded 
to  explain  the  extreme  improbability  of  our  hypothesis. 
Then  she  read  the  story,  which,  to  the  other  girls,  settled 
the  matter.  It  was  called  "Our  Keziah,"  and  began  by 
telling  that  the  title  of  the  portrait  was  a  misnomer.  It 
was  no  "fancy  sketch,"  but  a  likeness  of  "Our  Keziah." 

Silenced  but  not  convinced,  I  restrained  the  impulse  to 
tell  my  mates  that  stories  might  be  made  out  of  nothing. 
I  knew  it,  and  so  did  my  only  confidante,  the  handsome 
governess  from  Massachusetts,  who  had  been  installed  in 
our  school-room  since  June. 

Mr.  Tayloe  had  gone  back  to  the  theological  factory  to 
prosecute  the  studies  that  were  to  fit  him  to  proclaim  the 
gospel  of  love  and  peace.  On  the  last  day  of  the  session 
he  had  preached  us  a  short  sermon,  seated  in  his  chair  at 
the  head  of  the  room,  twirling  the  seal  dangling  from  his 
watch-chain;  his  legs  crossed,  the  left  hand  tucked  be- 
tween them;  his  brows  drawn  together  in  the  ugly  horse- 
shoe we  knew  well  and  dreaded  much. 

He  must  have  descanted  darkly  upon  the  transitoriness 
of  earthly  joys  and  the  hard  road  to  heaven,  for  every 
girl  in  school  was  in  tears  except  Mea  and  myself. 

As  for  my  wicked  self,  as  I  privately  confessed  subse- 
quently to  my  father's  young  partner,  "Thad"  Ivey  — 
"I  could  think  of  nothing  but  Franklin's  grace  over 
the  whole  barrel."  In  the  ten  months  of  his  incumbency 
of  the  tutorship,  the  incipient  divine  had  never  so  much 
as  hinted  to  one  of  us  that  she  had  a  soul. 

86 


OUR  HANDSOME  YANKEE  GOVERNESS 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  it  is  like  returning  thanks 
over  the  empty  barrel,"  I  subjoined,  encouraged  by  my 
interlocutor's  keen  relish  of  the  irreverent  and  impertinent 
comment  upon  the  scene  of  the  afternoon.  "Thad"  and  I 
were  great  friends,  and  I  had  an  idea  that  our  views  upon 
this  subject  did  not  differ  widely. 

Mrs.  Willis  D.,  our  nearest  neighbor,  was  with  my 
mother,  and  when  the  tear-bedraggled  procession  from  the 
school-room  filed  into  the  porch  where  the  two  friends  were 
sitting  with  three  other  of  the  villagers,  and  Virginia  Win- 
free  threw  herself  into  her  aunt's  arms  with  a  strangled 
sob  of:  "Oh,  Aunt  Betty,  he  did  preach  so  hard!" — the 
dry-eyed  composure  of  the  Hawes  girls  was  regarded  with 
disfavor. 

"Your  daughters  have  so  much  fortitude!"  remarked 
one,  mopping  her  girl's  eyes  with  a  compassionate  handker- 
chief. 

Another,  "They  show  wonderful  self-control  for  their 
age." 

Even  our  sensible  mother  was  slightly  scandalized  by 
what  she  "  hoped,"  deprecatingly,  "was  not  want  of 
feeling." 

Tears  were  fashionable,  and  came  easily  in  those  early 
times,  and  weeping  in  church  was  such  a  godly  exercise 
that  conversation  or  exhortation  upon  what  was,  in  tech- 
nical phrase,  "the  subject  of  religion,"  brought  tears  as 
naturally  as  the  wringing  of  a  moist  sponge,  water. 

"What  did  you  cry  for?"  demanded  I,  scornfully,  of 
Anne  Cams,  when  I  got  her  away  from  the  porch  party. 
"You  hate  him  as  much  as  I  do!" 

"Oh — I  don't — know!"  dubiously.  "People  always  cry 
when  anybody  makes  a  farewell  speech." 

So  the  Reverend-that-was-to-be  Tayloe  took  his  shadow 
from  our  door  and  his  beak  from  out  my  heart.  The  quo- 
tation is  not  a  mere  figure  of  speech. 

87 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  handsome  Yankee  governess  opened  the  door  of  a 
new  life  for  me.  Some  of  the  parents  complained  that 
she  "did  not  bring  the  children  on  as  fast  as  Mr.  Tayloe 
had  clone."  Me,  she  inspired.  I  comprehended,  as  by  a 
special  revelation,  that  hard  study  might  be  a  joy,  and 
gain  of  knowledge  rapture.  With  her  I  began  Vose's 
Astronomy,  Comstock's  Natural  Philosophy,  and  Lyell's 
Elements  of  Geology,  and  revelled  in  them  all.  Her  smile 
was  my  present  reward,  and  when  she  offered  to  join  me 
in  my  seemingly  aimless  rambles  in  the  woods  and  "old 
fields,"  I  felt  honored  as  by  a  queen's  favor.  We  sat  to- 
gether upon  mossy  stumps  and  the  banks  of  the  brook 
I  had  until  then  called  "a  branch"  in  native  Virginian 
dialect — talking!  talking!  talking!  for  hours,  of  nymphs, 
hamadryads,  satyrs,  and  everything  else  in  the  world  of 
imagination  and  nature. 

She  wrote  poetry,  and  she  kept  a  diary;  she  had  trav- 
elled in  ten  states  of  the  Union,  and  lived  in  three  different 
cities;  and  she  never  tired  of  answering  questions  as  to 
what  she  had  seen  in  her  wanderings.  Her  nature  was 
singularly  sweet  and  sunny,  and  I  never,  in  all  the  ten 
months  of  our  intimacy,  saw  in  language  and  deportment 
aught  that  was  not  refined  and  gentle. 

With  her  I  began  to  write  school  "compositions."  The 
"big  girls"  wrote  them  under  the  Tayloe  regime — neat 
little  essays  upon  "The  Rose,"  "The  Lily,"  "Morning," 
"Night,"  and  all  of  the  Four  Seasons.  Never  a  syllable 
had  I  lisped  to  one  of  them  of  the  growing  hoard  of  rhymes, 
tales,  and  sketches  in  the  shabby,  corpulent  portfolio  I 
had  fashioned  with  my  own  fingers  and  kept  in  the  bottom 
of  a  trunk  under  flannel  skirts  and  last  year's  outgrown 
frocks. 

I  brought  them  out  of  limbo  to  show  to  Miss  Wilson, 
by  timid  degrees,  and  new  manuscripts  as  fast  as  they  were 
written.     She  praised  them,  but  not  without  discrimina- 

88 


THE    NASCENT    AUTHOR 

tion.  She  suggested  topics,  and  how  to  treat  them.  I 
never  carried  an  imperfect  lesson  to  her  in  class.  Intellect 
and  heart  throve  under  her  genial  influence  as  frost- 
hindered  buds  under  May  sunshine. 

"The  Fancy  Sketch"  was  so  like  her  it  was  natural  I 
should  refuse  to  believe  the  resemblance  accidental.  It 
was  as  plain  as  day  to  my  apprehension  that  the  unknown 
artist  had  seen  her  somewhere,  and,  unseen  by  her,  had 
dogged  her  footsteps  until  he  fixed  her  face  in  his  mind's 
eye,  then  transferred  it  to  canvas. 

It  was  a  shock  when  the  probability  of  his  pursuit  of 
her  to  Virginia,  avowing  his  passion  and  being  rewarded  by 
the  gift  of  her  hand,  was  dissipated  by  the  apparition  of 
a  matter-of-fact  personage,  McPhail  by  name,  who  was 
neither  poet  nor  artist.  He  had  been  betrothed  to  our 
governess  for  ever  so  long.  He  spent  a  fortnight  at  the 
"Old  Tavern,"  opposite  our  house,  and  claimed  all  of  the 
waking  hours  she  could  spare  from  school  duties. 

The  finale  of  the  romance  was  that  she  went  back  to  the 
North  at  the  end  of  her  year's  engagement  with  us,  and 
married  him,  settling,  we  heard,  in  what  sounded  like  an 
outlandish  region — Cape  Neddick,  on  the  Maine  coast. 


IX 


A  COLLEGE  NEIGHBORHOOD — THE  WORLD  WIDENS — A  BE- 
LOVED TUTOR — COLONIZATION  DREAMS  AND  DISAP- 
POINTMENT— MAJOR  MORTON 

"Ricehill,  February  3d,  1843. 
"Dear  Dorinda, — I  suppose  mother  has  told  you  of  our 
privileges  and  pleasant  situation.  I  only  want  some  of  my 
friends  to  enjoy  it  with  me  to  make  me  perfectly  happy.  Oh, 
how  I  wish  you  were  here  to  go  to  the  debating  society  with 
me  and  to  hear  the  young  men  preach!  I  went  to  college 
last  night  to  hear  some  speeches  delivered  by  the  Senior  Class. 
They  have  questions  given,  and  one  takes  one  side  and  one 
another.  The  two  best  speeches  were  made  on  the  ques- 
tion 'Is  a  love  of  fame  more  injurious  than  beneficial?'  One 
young  man  took  the  affirmative,  and  one  the  negative.  They 
made  the  best  speeches.  Then  the  question  was  whether 
'the  execution  of  Charles  I.  was  just  or  not.'  Both  of  these 
speakers  needed  prompting;  that  is,  one  of  those  who  had 
spoken  or  was  to  speak  took  the  speaker's  speech  which  he  had 
written  off,  and,  if  he  forgot,  set  him  right  again.  The  young 
man  who  performed  this  office  was  very  well  qualified  for  it; 
he  spoke  in  a  low,  distinct  tone,  and  seemed  to  find  no  dif- 
ficulty in  reading  the  writing.  They  speak  again  in  about  six 
weeks.  But  the  chief  enjoyments  I  have  are  the  religious 
privileges.  I  can  go  to  the  prayer-meeting  at  the  Seminary 
every  Wednesday,  and  can  hear  three  sermons  every  Sunday. 
Don't  you  wish  you  were  here,  too  ?  Aunt  Rice  and  sister  went 
to  the  Court  House  last  Sunday  evening  to  hear  Mr.  Ballan- 
tine's  lecture,  and  as  they  did  not  come  back  very  soon  the 
young  men  came  in  to  supper.  While  sister  and  Aunt  Rice 
were  away  I  wrote  an  account  of  Mr.  Hoge's  and  Mr.  Howi- 

90 


A    COLLEGE    NEIGHBORHOOD 

son's  sermons.  Well,  when  Mr.  Howison  came  in,  '  Well,  Miss 
Virginia,  have  you  been  by  yourself  all  this  evening  ?'  '  Yes, 
sir.'  'Did  you  not  feel  very  lonely?'  'Not  at  all.'  'Why, 
what  have  you  been  doing?'  'I  have  been  writing.'  He 
paused,  laughed,  and  then  said,  'And  what  have  you  been 
writing?'  And  when  I  told  him,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him !  He  looked  at  me  for  a  while  as  if  he  did  not  understand 
me,  and  then  laughed  heartily.  He  is  very  easy  to  laugh,  but 
his  manners  are  as  different  from  Mr.  Tayloe's  as  can  be — 
but  hush!  what  am  I  drawing  comparisons  for?  I  do  not 
feel  in  the  least  restrained  where  he  is,  and  can  talk  to  him 
better  than  to  any  other  gentleman  here.  Would  not  you 
like  to  have  such  a  teacher  ? 

"Feb.  6th. — I  wonder  when  father  will  come  up;  I  have  been 
looking  for  him  every  day  for  more  than  a  week.  Mr.  Nevius 
was  here  the  other  day.  I  inquired  after  you,  but  he  had 
never  seen  you  when  he  went  to  Mr.  Miller's.  I  was  quite 
disappointed,  and  I  wish  you  would  show  yourself  next  time — 
that  is,  if  you  can. 

"I  very  often  think  of  the  times  we  ate  roasted  corn  and 
turnips  in  the  midst  of  the  corn-field;  don't  you  remember 
the  evening  when  the  supper-bell  rang  and  we  hid  our  corn 
among  the  leaves  of  the  corn  that  was  growing?  I  never 
knew  how  much  I  loved  you  or  any  of  my  friends  until  I  was 
separated  from  them.  Mr.  Nevius  brought  a  letter  for  sister 
from  Anne  Cams.  She  still  writes  in  that  desponding  style 
you  know  she  was  so  remarkable  for  in  school,  but  I  am  glad 
to  see  from  her  letter  that  she  has  come  to  the  conclusion  to 
be  contented  with  her  lot. 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  indulge  in  such  feelings,  and,  indeed,  you 
have  no  reason  to  do  so,  for  you  are  only  six  miles  from  your 
mother  and  friends,  and  you  are  with  your  brother,  and  I 
think  you  will  find  a  valuable  friend  in  Malvina.  How  do 
you  like  your  new  teacher  and  situation?  If  you  are  ever 
home-sick,  study  hard  and  forget  it 

"I  have  made  many  pleasant  acquaintances  here,  and 
among  them  Mr.  Tayloe's  flame !  I  do  not  think  they  are  en- 
gaged, but  he  goes  there  very  frequently,  and  the  students 

91 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

plague  him  half  to  death  about  her,  and  he  never  denies  it. 
He  boards  here.  She  has  a  fair  skin,  blue  eyes,  and  almost 
red  hair,  but  she  is  very  pretty  'for  all  that.'  She  is  about 
seventeen.  There  is  a  little  girl  about  my  own  age  here,  who 
takes  your  place  in  my  affections  while  here;  she  is  a  grand- 
daughter of  Professor  Wilson,  and  lives  in  his  house.  Her 
name  is  Louisa  Caruthers.  I  will  speak  to  Lou  about  you,  for 
you  vmst  be  acquainted.  But  a  truce  to  this  nonsense!  Do 
not  show  this  letter  to  any  one  of  Mr.  Miller's  family,  for  I  feel 
restrained  if  I  think  that  my  letters  are  to  be  shown  to  any 
except  my  particular  friends.  I  will  not  show  yours.  Show 
this  to  mother,  your  mother,  E.  D.,  and  V.  Winfree.  Give 
my  respects  to  all  Mr.  M.'s  family,  take  some  of  my  best  love 
for  yourself,  and  divide  the  rest  among  my  friends. 

"Now  farewell,  do  not  forget  me,  and  I  will  ever  be 
"Your  sincerely  attached  friend, 

"M.  V.  H." 

The  foregoing  priggish  and  stilted  epistle  begins  the  next 
chapter  of  my  life-story. 

After  Miss  Wilson's  departure,  and  divers  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  obtain  a  successor  to  his  liking,  my  father 
determined  upon  a  bold  departure  from  the  beaten  path 
of  traditional  and  conventional  usage  in  the  matter  of 
girls'  education. 

The  widow  of  Reverend  Doctor  Rice  lived  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  Union  Theological  Seminary,  founded 
by  her  husband,  and  of  which  he  was  the  first  president. 
The  cluster  of  dwellings  that  had  grown  up  around  the 
two  institutions  of  learning — Hampden-Sidney  College  and 
the  School  of  Divinity — made,  with  the  venerable  "College 
Church,"  an  educational  centre  for  a  community  noted  for 
generations  past  for  intelligence  and  refinement.  Prince 
Edward,  Charlotte,  and  Halifax  were  closely  adjacent 
comities  peopled  by  what  nobody  then  ridiculed  as  some 
of  the  "first  families"  of  the  state.  Veuables,  Carring- 
tons,   Reades,   Bouldins,   Watkinses,   Randolphs,   Cabells, 

92 


A    COLLEGE    NEIGHBORHOOD 

Mortons,  Lacys — had  borne  a  conspicuous  part  in  state, 
church,  and  social  history.  The  region  was  aristocratic — 
and  Presbyterian.  There  was  much  wealth,  for  tobacco 
was  the  most  profitable  crop  of  Central  and  Southern  Vir- 
ginia, and  the  plantations  bordering  the  Appomattox  River 
were  a  mine  of  riches  to  the  owners.  Stately  mansions — 
most  of  them  antedating  the  Revolutionary  War — crowned 
gently  rolling  hills  rising  beyond  the  river,  each,  with  its 
little  village  of  domestic  offices,  great  stables,  tobacco- 
barns,  and  "quarters,"  making  up  an  establishment  that 
was  feudal  in  character  and  in  power. 

Every  planter  was  college-bred  and  a  politician. 

The  local  atmosphere  of  "College  Hill"  was  not  unlike 
that  of  an  Old  World  university  town.  The  professors  of 
the  sister  institutions  of  learning  occupied  houses  in  the 
vicinity  of  seminary  and  college,  and  the  quaint  church, 
the  bricks  mellowed  to  red-brown  by  time,  stood  equi- 
distant from  both. 

One  feature  of  the  church  impressed  my  youthful  imagi- 
nation. "Cousin  Ben,"  of  Montrose — afterward  the  senior 
professor  in  the  seminary,  and  as  Rev.  B.  M.  Smith,  D.D., 
known  throughout  the  Southern  and  Northern  Presby- 
terian Church  as  a  leader  in  learning  and  in  doctrine — had, 
when  a  student  of  Hampden-Sidney,  brought  from  Western 
Virginia  a  sprig  of  Scotch  broom  in  his  pocket.  "The 
Valley" — now  a  part  of  West  Virginia — was  mainly  settled 
by  Scotch-Irish  emigrants,  and  the  broom  was  imported 
with  their  household  stuff.  The  boy  set  the  withered 
slip  in  the  earth  just  inside  of  the  gate  of  the  church- 
yard. In  twenty  years  it  encompassed  the  walls  with  a 
setting  of  greenery,  overran  the  enclosure,  escaped  under 
the  fence,  and  raced  rampant  down  the  hill,  growing  tall 
and  lush  wherever  it  could  get  a  foothold.  In  blossom- 
time  the  mantle  of  gold  was  visible  a  mile  away.  The  smell 
of  broom  always  brings  back  to  me  a  vision  of  that  ugly 

93 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

(but  dear)  red-brown  church  and  the  goodly  throng,  pour- 
ing from  doors  and  gate  at  the  conclusion  of  the  morning 
service,  filling  yard  and  road  —  well-dressed,  well-born 
county  folk,  prosperous  and  hospitable,  and  so  happily 
content  with  their  lot  and  residence  as  to  believe  that 
no  other  people  was  so  blessed  of  the  Lord  they  served 
diligently  and  with  godly  fear.  Without  the  church- 
yard were  drawn  up  cumbrous  family  coaches,  which 
conveyed  dignified  dames  and  dainty  daughters  to  and 
from  the  sanctuary.  Beyond  these  was  a  long  line  of 
saddle-horses  waiting  for  their  masters — blooded  hunters 
for  the  young  men,  substantial  cobs  for  their  seniors. 
None  except  invalided  men  deigned  to  accept  seats  in 
carriages. 

As  may  be  gathered  from  the  formally  familiar  and  ir- 
resistibly funny  epistle,  indited  when  I  had  been  four 
months  an  insignificant  actor  in  the  scene  I  have  sketched, 
"religious  privileges"  was  no  idle  term  then  and  there. 
Our  social  outings  were  what  I  have  indicated.  There  were 
no  concerts  save  the  "Monthly  Concert  of  Prayer  for  For- 
eign Missions"  (held  simultaneously  in  every  church  in  the 
state  and  Union) ;  not  a  theatre  in  Virginia,  excepting  one 
in  Richmond,  banned  for  the  religious  public  by  the  awful 
memories  of  the  burning  of  the  playhouse  in  1811.  "Din- 
ing-days,"  which  their  descendants  name  "dinner-parties," 
were  numerous,  and  there  was  much  junketing  from  one 
plantation  to  another,  a  ceaseless  drifting  back  and  forth 
of  young  people,  overflowing,  now  this  house,  now  that,  al- 
ways certain  of  a  glad  welcome,  and  contriving,  without 
the  adventitious  aid  of  cards  or  dancing,  to  lead  joyous, 
full  lives. 

Once  a  week  the  community  turned  out,  en  masse,  for 
church-going.  They  were  a  devout  folk — those  F.  F.  V.'s, 
at  which  we  mock  now — and  considered  it  a  public  duty 
not  to  forsake  the  assembling  of  themselves  together  for 

94 


THE    WORLD    WIDENS 

worship,  prayers,  and  sermons.  These  latter  were  intel- 
lectual, no  less  than  spiritual  pabulum.  Oratory  had  not 
gone  out  of  fashion  in  these  United  States,  and  in  Virginia 
it  was  indigenous  to  the  soil.  Pulpit  eloquence  was  in  its 
glory,  and  speech-making  at  barbecues,  anniversaries,  and 
political  gatherings,  in  court-rooms  and  upon  "stumps," 
was  an  art  learned  by  boys  in  roundabouts  and  practised 
as  long  as  veterans  could  stand  upon  their  shrunken  calves. 

People  flocked  to  church  to  attend  reverently  upon  di- 
vine service,  and,  when  the  benediction  was  pronounced, 
greeted  friends  and  neighbors,  cheerily  chatting  in  the 
aisles  and  exchanging  greetings  between  the  benches  they 
had  occupied  during  the  services — men  and  women  sitting 
apart,  as  in  the  Quaker  meeting-house — as  freely  as  we  now 
salute  and  stroll  with  acquaintances  in  the  foyer  of  the 
opera-house. 

Such  were  some  of  the  advantages  and  enjoyments  in- 
cluded in  the  elastic  phrase  "religious  privileges,"  vaunted 
by  the  epistolary  twelve-year-old. 

"Rice  Hill"  was  a  commodious  dwelling,  one  mile  from 
the  seminary,  and  not  quite  so  far  from  the  college.  Doctor 
Rice  had  literally  spent  and  been  spent  in  the  work  which 
had  crowned  his  ministry — the  foundation  and  endowment 
of  a  Southern  School  of  Divinity.  At  his  death,  friends  and 
admirers,  North  and  South,  agreed  that  a  suitable  monu- 
ment to  him  would  be  a  home  for  the  childless  widow.  She 
had  a  full  corps  of  family  servants,  who  had  followed  her 
to  her  various  residences,  and  she  eked  out  her  income  by 
supplying  table-board  to  students  from  college  and  semi- 
nary. Thus  much  in  explanation  of  the  references  to  the 
coming  in  of  "the  gentlemen"  in  the  "evening" — rural 
Virginian  for  afternoon. 

A  kindly  Providence  had  appointed  unto  us  these  pleas- 
ant paths  at  the  impressionable  period  of  our  lives.  The 
goodliest  feature  in  that  appointment  was  that  Robert  Reid 

95 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Howison,  subsequently  "LL.D.,"  and  the  author  of  a 
History  of  Virginia,  and  The  Student's  History  of  the  United 
States,  became  the  tutor  of  my  sister  and  myself. 

He  came  to  us  at  twelve  o'clock  each  day,  and  we  dined 
at  half-past  two.  Hence,  all  our  studying  was  done  out  of 
school-hours.  The  arrangement  was  eccentric  in  the  ex- 
treme in  the  eyes  of  my  father's  acquaintances  and  critics. 
Other  girls  were  in  the  class-room  from  nine  until  twelve, 
and  after  recess  had  a  session  of  two  hours  more.  That 
this,  the  most  outre  of  "Mr.  Hawes's  experiments,"  would 
be  a  ludicrous  failure  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  Whereas, 
the  cool  brain  had  reckoned  confidently  upon  the  fidelity 
of  the  tutor  and  the  conscientiousness  of  pupils  accustomed 
to  the  discipline  of  a  home  where  implicit  obedience  was 
the  law. 

Never  had  learners  a  happier  period  of  pupilage,  and  the 
cordial  relations  between  teacher  and  students  testified  to 
the  mutual  desire  to  meet,  each,  the  requirements  of  the 
other  party  to  the  compact. 

To  the  impetus  given  our  minds  by  association  with  the 
genial  scholar  who  directed  our  studies,  was  added  the  stim- 
ulus of  the  table-talk  that  went  on  in  our  hearing  daily. 
It  was  the  informal,  suggestive  chat  of  men  eager  for 
knowledge,  comparing  notes  and  opinions,  and  discussing 
questions  of  deep  import — historical,  biological,  and  theo- 
logical. In  the  main,  they  were  a  bright  set  of  fellows;  in 
the  main,  likewise,  gentlemen  at  heart  and  in  bearing.  It 
goes  without  saying  that  the  exception  in  my  mind  to  the 
latter  clause  was  our  late  and  hated  tutor.  I  might  write 
to  Dorinda,  in  constrained  goody-goodyishness,  of  the  im- 
propriety of  "drawing  comparisons"  between  him  and 
Mr.  Howison,  whose  "easy"  laugh  and  winning  personality 
wrought  powerfully  upon  my  childish  fancy.  At  heart  I 
loved  the  one  and  consistently  detested  the  other. 

To  this  hour  I  recall  the  gratified  thrill  of  conscious  se- 

96 


A    BELOVED    TUTOR 

curity  and  triumph  that  coursed  through  my  minute  being 
when,  Mr.  Tayloe  having  taken  it  upon  himself  to  reprove 
me  for  something  I  said — pert,  perhaps,  but  not  otherwise 
offensive — Mr.  Howison  remarked,  with  no  show  of  tem- 
per, but  firmly: 

"Mr.  Tayloe,  you  will  please  recollect  that  this  young 
lady  is  now  under  my  care!" 

He  laughed  the  next  moment,  as  if  to  pass  the  matter 
off  pleasantly,  but  all  three  of  us  comprehended  what  was 
implied. 

We  began  French  with  our  new  tutor,  and  geometry! 
I  crossed  the  Pons  Asinorwm  in  January,  and  went  on  with 
Euclid  passably  well,  if  not  creditably.  Mathematics  was 
never  my  strong  point.  The  patience  and  perfect  temper 
of  the  preceptor  never  failed  him,  no  matter  how  far  I 
came  short  of  what  he  would  have  had  me  accomplish  in 
that  direction. 

"Educate  them  as  if  they  were  boys  and  preparing  for 
college,"  my  father  had  said,  and  he  was  obeyed. 

Beyond  and  above  the  benefit  derived  from  the  study 
of  text-books  was  the  education  of  daily  contact  with  a 
mind  so  richly  stored  with  classic  and  modern  literature, 
so  keenly  alive  to  all  that  was  worthy  in  the  natural, 
mental,  and  spiritual  world  as  that  of  Robert  Howison. 
He  had  been  graduated  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  and 
for  a  year  or  more  had  practised  law  in  Richmond,  resign- 
ing the  profession  to  begin  studies  that  would  prepare  him 
for  what  he  rated  as  a  higher  calling.  My  debt  to  him  is 
great,  and  inadequately  acknowledged  in  these  halting  lines. 

Were  I  required  to  tell  what  period  of  my  nonage  had  most 
to  do  with  shaping  character  and  coloring  my  life,  I  should 
reply,  without  hesitation,  "The  nine  months  passed  at  Rice 
Hill."  A  new,  boundless  realm  of  thought  and  feeling  was 
opened  to  the  little  provincial  from  a  narrow,  neutral- 
tinted  neighborhood.     I  was  a  dreamer  by  nature  and  by 

97 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

habit,  and  my  dreams  took  on  a  new  complexion;  a  born 
story-maker,  and  a  wealth  of  material  was  laid  to  my 
hand.  We  were  a  family  of  mad  book-lovers,  and  the 
libraries  of  seminary  and  college  were  to  my  eyes  twin 
Golcondas  of  illimitable  possibilities.  Up  to  now,  novel- 
reading  had  been  a  questionable  delight  in  which  I  hardly 
dared  indulge  freely.  I  was  taught  to  abhor  deceit  and 
clandestine  practices,  and  my  father  had  grave  scruples 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  allowing  young  people  to  devour  fic- 
tion. We  might  read  magazines,  as  we  might  have  con- 
fectionery, in  limited  supplies.  A  bound  novel  would  be 
like  a  dinner  of  mince-pie  and  sweetmeats,  breeding  mental 
and  moral  indigestion. 

So,  when  Mr.  Howison  not  only  permitted,  but  advised 
the  perusal  of  Scott's  novels  and  poems,  I  fell  upon  them 
with  joyful  surprise  that  kindled  into  rapture  as  I  became 
familiar  with  the  Wizard  and  his  work.  We  lived  in  the 
books  we  read  then,  discussing  them  at  home  and  abroad, 
as  we  talk  now  of  living  issues  and  current  topics.  The 
Heart  of  Midlothian,  Marmion,  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 
Peveril  of  the  Peak,  and  Waverley  were  read  that  winter  on 
stormy  afternoons  and  during  the  long  evenings  that  suc- 
ceeded the  early  supper.  Sometimes  Mr.  Howison  lingered 
when  his  comrades  had  gone  back  to  their  dormitories, 
and  took  his  part  in  the  fascinating  entertainment.  Usual- 
ly the  group  was  composed  of  Aunt  Rice,  her  sister  (Mrs. 
Wharey,  lately  widowed,  who  was  making  arrangements 
to  settle  upon  an  adjoining  plantation),  Mrs.  Wharey's 
daughter,  another  "Cousin  Mary,"  my  sister,  and  myself. 

Aunt  Rice  was  a  "character"  in  her  way  and  day; 
shrewd,  kindly  sympathetic,  active  in  church  and  home, 
and  with  a  marvellous  repertoire  of  tale  and  anecdote  that 
made  her  a  most  entertaining  companion.  "The  Semi- 
nary" was  her  foster-child;  the  students  had  from  her 
maternal  interest  and  affection.     Like  other  gentlewomen 


COLONIZATION    DREAMS 

of  her  time  and  latitude,  she  was  well  versed  in  the  English 
classics  and  in  translations  from  the  Latin  and  Greek. 
Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison  were  household  favorites,  and 
this  winter  she  was  reading  with  delight  the  just-published 
History  of  the  Reformation,  by  Merle  d'Aubigne.  She  al- 
ways wore  black — merino  in  the  morning,  black  silk  or 
satin  in  the  afternoon — and  a  regulation  old  lady's  cap  with 
ribbon  strings  tied  under  a  double  chin,  and  I  think  of  her 
as  always  knitting  lamb's-wool  stockings.  Hers  was  a 
pronounced  individuality  in  every  capacity  she  assumed 
to  fill — mistress,  housewife,  neighbor,  and  general  well- 
wisher.  She  never  scolded,  yet  she  managed  the  dozen  or 
more  servants  that  had  come  down  to  her  by  ordinary 
generation — seven  of  them  men  and  boys — judiciously  and 
well.  Even  then  she  was  meditating  a  scheme  she  after- 
ward put  into  successful  execution — namely,  liberating  all 
her  slaves  and  sending  them  to  Liberia.  To  this  end  she 
had  taught  them  to  read  and  write,  and  each  boy  was 
trained  in  some  manual  trade.  She  superintended  their 
religious  education  as  faithfully.  Every  Sunday  night  all 
the  negroes  who  were  beyond  infancy  assembled  in  the 
dining-room  for  Scripture  readings  expounded  by  her  own 
pleasant  voice,  and  for  recitations  in  the  Shorter  Catechism 
and  Village  Hymn-book.  They  were  what  was  called  in  the 
neighborhood  vernacular,  "a  likely  lot."  The  boys  and 
men  were  clever  workers  in  their  several  lines  of  labor. 
The  women  were  skilled  in  the  use  of  loom,  spinning-wheel, 
and  needle,  and  excellent  cooks.  One  and  all,  they  were 
made  to  understand  from  babyhood  what  destiny  awaited 
them  so  soon  as  they  were  equipped  for  the  enterprise. 

I  wish  I  could  add  that  the  result  met  her  fond  expecta- 
tions. While  the  design  was  inchoate,  her  example  served 
as  a  stock  and  animating  illustration  of  the  wisdom  of  those 
who  urged  upon  Virginia  slaveholders  the  duty  of  return- 
ing the  blacks  to  the  land  from  which  their  fathers  were 

8  99 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

stolen.  Colonization  was  boldly  advocated  in  public  and 
in  private,  and  the  old  lady  was  a  fervent  convert.  In  the 
fulness  of  time  she  sent  out  five  families,  strong  and 
healthy,  as  well-educated  as  the  average  Northern  farmer 
and  mechanic.  She  sold  Rice  Hill  and  well-nigh  impov- 
erished herself  in  her  old  age  to  fit  out  the  colony  with 
clothes  and  household  goods,  and  went  to  spend  the  few 
remaining  years  of  her  life  in  the  home  of  her  sister.  The 
great  labor  of  her  dreams  and  hope  accomplished,  she 
chanted  a  happy  "Nunc  Dimittis"  to  sympathizer  and  to 
doubter.  She  had  solved  the  Dark  Problem  that  baffled 
the  world's  most  astute  statesmen.  If  all  who  hearkened 
unto  her  would  do  likewise,  the  muttering  of  the  hell  that 
was  already  moving  from  its  depth  under  the  feet  of  the 
nation,  would  be  silenced  forever. 

The  competent  colonists  had  hardly  had  time  to  send 
back  to  their  emancipated  mistress  news  of  their  safe  ar- 
rival in  the  Promised  Land,  when  they  found  themselves 
in  grievous  straits.  These,  duly  reported  to  Aunt  Rice, 
were  African  fevers  that  exhausted  their  strength  and  con- 
sumed their  stock  of  ready  money;  the  difficulty  of  earn- 
ing a  livelihood  while  they  were  ignorant  of  the  language 
and  customs  of  the  natives;  lack  of  suitable  clothing; 
scarcity  of  provisions,  and  a  waiting-list  of  etceteras  that 
rent  the  tender  heart  of  the  benefactress  with  unavailing 
pity.  She  was  importuned  for  money,  for  clothes,  for 
groceries — even  that  she  would,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  and 
the  sake  of  old  times,  send  them  a  barrel  of  rice — which, 
infidels  to  her  faith  in  colonization  did  not  fail  to  remind 
her,  was  to  be  had  in  Liberia  for  the  raising. 

The  stout-hearted  liberator  never  owned  in  word  her 
disappointment  at  the  outcome  of  long  years  of  patient 
preparation  and  personal  privation,  or  gave  any  sign  of 
appreciation  of  the  truth  that  her  grand  solution  of  the 
Dark  Problem  was  the  song  of  the  drunkard  and  a  by-word 

100 


MAJOR    MORTON 

and  a  hissing  in  the  mouth  of  the  unbeliever.  But  she 
ceased  long  before  her  death,  in  1858,  to  tax  her  listeners' 
patience  by  setting  forth  the  beauties  of  colonization  as 
the  practical  abolition  of  negro  slavery  in  America.  If 
her  ancestors  had  sinned  in  bringing  the  race  into  bond- 
age, and  her  teeth  were  thereby  set  on  edge,  she  hid  her 
hurt.  This  significant  silence  was  the  only  token  by 
which  her  best  friends  divined  her  consciousness  of  the 
humiliating  revelation  which  had  fallen  into  the  evening 
of  a  well-spent  life.  She  had  exchanged  for  the  five  families 
born  and  reared  in  her  home,  dependence,  comfort,  and 
happiness,  for  freedom,  pauperism,  and  discontent.  The 
cherished  bud  had  been  passing  sweet.  The  fruit  was  as 
bitter  as  gall. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  the  dream-bubble 
was  at  the  brightest  and  biggest.  She  was  in  active  corre- 
spondence with  the  officers  of  the  Colonization  Society;  sub- 
scribed to  and  read  colonization  publications,  and  dealt  out 
excerpts  from  the  same  to  all  who  would  listen ;  was  busy, 
sanguine,  and  bright,  beholding  herself,  in  imagination,  the 
leader  in  a  crusade  that  would  wipe  the  stain  of  slavery 
from  her  beloved  state. 

One  event  of  that  wonderful  winter  was  a  visit  paid  to 
Aunt  Rice  by  her  aged  father,  Major  James  Morton,  of  High 
Hill,  Cumberland  County,  the  "Old  Solid  Column"  of 
Revolutionary  story.  The  anecdote  of  Lafayette's  recog- 
nition of  his  former  brother-in-arms  was  related  in  an 
earlier  chapter.  It  was  treasured  in  the  family  as  a  bit  of 
choice  silver  would  be  prized.  I  had  heard  it  once  and 
again,  and  had  constructed  my  own  portrait  of  the  stout- 
hearted and  stout-bodied  warrior.  Surprise  approximated 
dismay  when  I  behold  a  withered,  tremulous  old  man,  en- 
feebled in  mind  almost  to  childishness,  his  voice  breaking 
shrilly  as  he  talked — a  pitiable,  crumbling  wreck  of  the 
stately  column. 

101 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

He  had  definite  ideas  upon  certain  subjects  still,  and 
was  doughty  in  their  defence.  For  example,  during  this 
visit  to  his  daughter,  he  sat  one  evening  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  apparently  dozing,  while  a  party  of  young  people 
were  discussing  the  increasing  facilities  of  travel  by  steam, 
and  contrasting  them  with  the  slow  methods  of  their 
fathers.  The  Major  drowsed  on,  head  sunken  into  his 
military  stock,  eyes  closed,  and  jaw  drooping — the  imper- 
sonation of  senile  decay — when  somebody  spoke  of  a  trip 
up  the  Hudson  to  West  Point  the  preceding  summer. 

The  veteran  raised  himself  as  if  he  had  been  shaken  by 
the  shoulder. 

"That  is  not  true!"  he  said,  doggedly. 

"But,  Major,"  returned  the  surprised  narrator,  "I  did 
go!    There  is  a  regular  line  of  steamers  up  the  river." 

The  old  war-horse  reared  his  head  and  beat  the  floor 
with  an  angry  heel. 

"I  say  it  is  not  true!  It  could  not  be  true!  General 
Washington  had  a  big  chain  stretched  across  the  river  after 
Arnold  tried  to  sell  West  Point,  so  that  no  vessel  could  get 
up  to  the  fort.  And,  sir!"  bringing  his  cane  down  upon 
the  hearth  with  a  resounding  thump,  his  voice  clear  and 
resonant,  "there  is  not  that  man  upon  earth  who  would 
dare  take  down  that  chain.  Why,  sir,  General  Washington 
put  it  there!" 

A  fragment  of  the  mighty  chain,  forged  in  the  moun- 
tains of  New  Jersey,  lies  upon  the  parade-ground  at  West 
Point. 

Forty  years  thereafter  I  laid  a  caressing  hand  upon  a 
huge  link  of  the  displaced  boom,  and  told  the  anecdote  to 
my  twelve-year-old  boy,  adding,  as  if  the  stubborn  loyalist 
had  said  it  in  my  ear, 

"And  there  it  stands  until  this  day, 
To  witness  if  I  lie." 
102 


MAJOR    MORTON 

We  read  Ivanhoe  in  the  open  air  when  the  spring  wore 
into  summer.  The  afternoons  were  long,  and  when  study- 
hours  were  over  we  were  wont  to  repair  to  the  roomy 
back-porch,  shaded  by  vines,  and  looking  across  a  little 
valley,  at  the  bottom  of  which  were  a  bubbling  spring,  a 
twisting  brook,  and  a  tiny  pool  as  round  as  a  moon,  to  the 
hill  crowned  by  "Morton,"  a  plain  but  spacious  house 
occupied  by  the  Wharey  family. 

Not  infrequently  a  seminary  student,  attracted  by  Mary 
Wharey's  brunette  comeliness  and  happy  temper,  would 
join  our  group  and  lend  a  voice  in  the  reading.  Moses 
Drury  Hoge,  a  cousin  of  my  mother  and  of  Aunt  Rice,  was 
with,  us  at  least  twice  a  week,  basking  in  the  summer  heat 
like  a  true  son  of  the  tropics.  He  was  a  tutor  in  Hampden- 
Sidney  while  a  divinity  student,  and,  as  was  proved  by  his 
subsequent  career,  was  the  superior  of  his  fellows  in  ora- 
torical gifts  and  other  endowments  that  mark  the  youth 
for  success  from  the  beginning  of  the  race.  I  think  he  was 
born  sophisticated.  Already  his  professors  yielded  him 
something  that,  while  it  was  not  homage  in  any  sense  of  the 
word,  yet  singled  him  out  as  one  whose  marked  individu- 
ality and  brilliant  talents  gave  him  the  right  to  speak  with 
authority.  At  twenty-three,  without  other  wealth  than  his 
astute  brain  and  ready  wits,  his  future  was  sure. 

He  won  in  after  years  the  title  of  "the  Patrick  Henry  of 
the  Southern  Pulpit." 

Of  him  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak  further  as  my 
story  progresses. 


X 


FAMILY    LETTERS — COMMENCEMENT   AT   HAMPDEN-SIDNEY — 
THEN   AND   NOW 

"Richmond,  June  10th,  1843. 
"My  dear  Wife, — After  a  fatiguing  day  it  is  with  great 
pleasure  I  sit  down  to  have  a  little  chat  with  you,  and  to 
inform  you  of  our  progress.  Were  I  disposed  to  give  credit 
to  lucky  and  unlucky  days,  a  little  incident  occurred  on  our 
way  down  which  would  have  disturbed  me  very  much.  We 
were  going  on  at  a  reasonable  rate  when,  to  our  surprise,  the 
front  of  the '  splendid  line  of  coach '  assumed  a  strange  position, 
and  for  a  moment  I  thought  we  should  be  wrecked,  but  it  was 
only  minus  a  wheel — one  of  the  front  ones  having  taken  leave 
of  us  and  journeying,  'singly  and  alone,'  on  the  other 
side  of  the  turnpike.  We  were  soon  'all  right,'  and  arrived 
here  in  good  health  but  much  fatigued.  Mother  has  hardly 
got  rested  yet,  but  thinks  another  quiet  day  will  be  sufficient, 
and  that  she  will  be  ready  to  start  on  Monday  morning  and  be 
able  to  hold  out  to  go  through  without  again  stopping.  We 
have  passed  over  the  most  fatiguing  part  of  our  journey.  We 
shall  leave  on  Monday  morning  by  the  railroad,  and,  unless 
some  accident  should  happen  on  the  way,  e»xpect  to  be  in 
Boston  on  Wednesday  about  9  o'clock  a.m.  It  is  my  in- 
tention to  keep  on,  unless  mother  should  require  rest,  more 
than  can  be  had  on  the  line  of  travel.  .  .  .  Well,  love,  are  you 
not  tired  of  this  overparticularity  about  business?  I  will  not 
weary  you  any  longer  with  it.  I  have  never  left  home  with  a 
stronger  feeling  of  regret  than  at  the  present  time,  and  it 
appears  that  the  older  I  get,  the  greater  the  trial  to  stay  away. 
Now  you  will  say  that  it  is  because  you  become  more  and 
more  interesting.     Well,  it  must  be  so,  for  I   cannot  dis- 

104 


FAMILY    LETTERS 

cover  any  other  cause.     Do  not  let  it  be  long  before  you 
write. 

"The  heat,  wind,  and  dust  of  the  city  to-day  have  put  me 
entirely  out  of  trim  for  writing,  and  my  talent  is  but  small 
even  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances.  By-the-bye, 
called  on  Mrs.  D.  last  evening  to  deliver  a  message  from  Mr. 
D.  Quite  a  pleasant  ten  minutes'  affair,  and  was  excused. 
Herbert  must  save  some  of  those  nice  plants  for  that  box 
to  be  placed  on  a  pole,  and  tell  him  if  he  is  a  good  boy  we  will 
try  and  have  a  nice  affair  for  the  little  birds.  My  man  must 
have  a  hand  in  the  work,  if  it  be  only  to  look  on,  and  Alice 
can  do  the  talking  part.  Don't  let  Virginia  take  to  her  cham- 
ber. Keep  her  circulating  about  the  house  in  all  dry  weather; 
the  wind  will  not  injure  her,  unless  it  be  quite  damp,  at  least 
so  I  think. 

"Sunday,  11th. — Attended  Doctor  Plumer's  church  this 
morning,  and  heard  a  young  man,  the  son  of  one  of  the  pro- 
fessors at  Princeton,  preach.  The  sermon  was  good,  but 
should  have  preferred  the  Doctor.  Morning  rainy  and  no 
one  in  from  Olney. 

"Evening. — Attended  Mr.  Magoon's  church.  He  preached 
from  the  words,  'Be  not  deceived,  God  is  not  mocked,'  etc. 
A  good,  practical  sermon ;  he  alluded  to  ministers  and  church 
members  away  from  home,  and  showed  them  in  many  cases 
to  be  mockers  of  God,  and  instanced  inconsistencies,  all 
of  which  he  termed  'mockery.'  Expect  "to-night  to  hear 
Doctor  Plumer.  Now,  love,  you  have  a  full  history  up  to  the 
time  of  our  departure.  Write  to  me  soon,  and,  after  telling 
about  yourself,  the  children,  and  servants,  give  me  an  account 
of  store,  farming,  and  gardening  operations.  Those  large 
sheets  will  hold  a  great  deal,  if  written  very  close.  Kiss  Alice 
and  the  baby  for  father.  Tell  Herbert  and  Horace  that 
father  wishes  them  to  be  good  boys  and  learn  fast.  And  now, 
dear  Anna,  I  must  bid  you  adieu,  commending  you  and  our 
dear  ones  to  the  care  of  Him  whose  mercies  have  been 
so  largely  bestowed  on  us  in  days  past.  May  He  pre- 
serve you  from  all  evil  and  cause  you  to  dwell  in  perfect 
peace," 

105 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  foregoing  extracts  from  a  letter  written  by  my 
father  during  the  (to  us)  "wonderful  summer"  of  our 
sojourn  in  Prince  Edward  had  to  do  with  the  periodical 
visit  paid  by  my  grandmother  to  her  Massachusetts  home. 
I  am  deeply  impressed  in  the  perusal  of  these  confidential 
epistles  with  the  absolute  dependence  of  the  strong  man — 
whom  mere  acquaintances  rated  as  reserved  to  sternness, 
and  singularly  undemonstrative,  even  to  his  friends — upon 
the  gentle  woman  who  was,  I  truly  believe.,  the  one  and 
only  love  of  his  lifetime.  He  talked  to  her  by  tongue  and 
by  pen  of  every  detail  of  business ;  she  was  the  confidante 
of  every  plan,  however  immature;  she,  and  she  alone, 
fathomed  the  depths  of  a  soul  over  which  Puritan  blood 
and  training  impelled  him  to  cast  a  veil.  In  all  this  he 
had  not  a  secret  from  her.  Portions  of  the  letter  which  I 
have  omitted  go  into  particulars  of  transactions  that  would 
interest  few  women. 

No  matter  how  weary  he  was  after  a  day  of  travel  or 
work,  he  had  always  time  to  "talk  it  out"  with  his  alter 
ego.  The  term  has  solemn  force,  thus  applied.  In  the 
injunction  to  write  of  domestic,  gardening,  and  farming 
affairs,  he  brings  in  "the  store,"  now  of  goodly  propor- 
tions and  "departments,"  and  into  which  she  did  not  set 
foot  once  a  week,  and  then  as  any  other  customer  might, 
"Those  large  sheets  will  hold  a  great  deal  if  written  very 
close,"  he  says,  archly.  They  had  evidently  been  pro- 
vided for  this  express  purpose  before  he  left  home. 

One  paragraph  in  the  exscinded  section  of  the  letter  be- 
longs to  a  day  and  system  that  have  lapsed  almost  from 
the  memory  of  the  living. 

An  infant  of  Mary  Anne,  my  mother's  maid,  was  ill  with 
whooping-cough  when  the  master  took  his  journey  north- 
ward. 

"I  am  quite  anxious  to  hear  how  Edgar  is,"  he  writes. 
"I  fear  the  case  may  prove  fatal,  and  am  inclined  to  blame 

106 


FAMILY    LETTERS 

myself  for  leaving  home  before  it  was  decided.  Yet  I 
know  he  is  in  good  hands,  and  that  you  have  done  and 
will  do  everything  necessary  for  his  comfort.  Also  that, 
in  the  event  of  his  death,  all  that  is  proper  will  be 
attended  to.  When  I  get  home  the  funeral  shall  be 
preached,  of  which  you  will  please  inform  his  par- 
ents." 

No  word  of  written  or  spoken  comfort  would  do  more  to 
soothe  the  hearts  of  the  bereaved  parents  than  the  assurance 
that  the  six-months-old  baby  should  have  his  funeral  ser- 
mon in  good  and  regular  order.  The  discourse  was  seldom 
preached  at  the  time  of  interment.  Weeks,  and  sometimes 
months,  intervened  before  the  friends  and  relatives  could 
be  convened  with  sufficient  pomp  and  circumstance  to 
satisfy  the  mourners.  I  have  attended  services  embody- 
ing a  long  sermon,  eulogistic  of  the  deceased  and  admoni- 
tory of  the  living,  when  the  poor  mortal  house  of  clay  had 
mouldered  in  the  grave  for  half  a  year.  I  actually  knew 
of  one  funeral  of  a  wife  that  was  postponed  by  untoward 
circumstances  until,  when  a  sympathizing  community  was 
convoked  to  listen  to  the  sermon,  the  ex-widower  sat  in 
the  front  seat  as  chief  mourner  with  a  second  wife  and 
her  baby  beside  him.  And  the  wife  wore  a  black  gown 
with  black  ribbon  on  her  bonnet,  out  of  respect  to  her 
predecessor! 

They  were  whites,  and  church  members  in  good  and 
regular  standing. 

Little  Edgar  died  the  day  after  my  father  took  the  train 
from  Richmond  for  the  fast  run  through  to  Boston— in  two 
days  and  two  nights!  When  the  master  got  home  after 
a  month's  absence,  the  funeral  sermon  was  preached  in  old 
Petersville  Church,  three  miles  from  the  Court  House,  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  parents  and  elder  children  were 
conveyed  thither  in  the  family  carriage,  driven  by  Spots- 
wood,  who  would  now  be  the  "coachman."     Then  he  was 

107 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the   "carriage-driver."    They   took   time   for  everything 
then-a-days,  and  plenty  of  it. 

In  September,  Mea  and  I  had  the  culmination  of  our 
experiences  and  "privileges"  upon  College  Hill  in  the 
Hampden-Sidney  Commencement.  I  had  never  attended 
one  before.  I  have  seen  none  since  that  were  so  grand, 
and  none  that  thrilled  me  to  the  remotest  fibre  of  my 
being  as  the  exercises  of  that  gloriously  cloudless  day.  I 
hesitate  to  except  even  the  supreme  occasion  when,  from 
a  box  above  the  audience-floor  packed  with  two  thousand 
students  and  blazing  with  electric  lights,  I  saw  my 
tall  son  march  with  his  class  to  receive  his  diploma 
from  the  president  of  a  great  university,  and  greeted  him 
joyfully  when,  the  ceremonial  over,  he  brought  it  up  to  lay 
in  my  lap. 

There  were  but  four  graduates  in  that  far-off  little  coun- 
try college  with  the  hyphenated  name  and  the  honored 
history.  It  may  be  that  their  grandchildren  will  read  the 
roll  here:  Robert  Campbell  Anderson,  Thomas  Brown 
Venable,  Paul  Carrington,  and  Mr.  Rice,  whose  initials  I 
think  were  "T.  C."  There  were,  I  reiterate,  but  four 
graduates,  but  they  took  three  honors.  Robert  Anderson 
was  valedictorian;  Mr.  Rice  of  the  uncertain  initials  had 
the  philosophical  oration;  Tom  Brown  Venable  had  the 
Latin  salutatory;  and  Paul  Carrington,  the  one  honorless 
man,  made  the  most  brilliant  speech  of  them  all.  It  was 
a  way  he  had.  The  madcap  of  the  college — who  just  "got 
through,"  as  it  were,  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  by  cramming 
night  and  day  for  two  months  to  make  up  for  an  indefinite 
series  of  wretched  recitations  and  numberless  escapades 
out  of  class — he  easily  eclipsed  his  mates  on  that  day  of 
days.  The  boys  used  to  say  that  he  was  "Saul,"  until 
he  got  up  to  declaim,  or  make  an  original  address.  Then 
he  was  "Paul."  He  was  Pauline,  par  eminence,  to-day. 
I  could  recite  verbatim  his  lament  over  Byron's  wasted 

10S 


COMMENCEMENT     AT     HAMPDEN-SIDNE  Y 

powers,  and  I  see,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  that  it  thrilled 
me,  the  pose  and  passion  of  the  outburst,  arms  tossed  to 
heaven  in  the  declamation: 

"0!  had  his  harp  been  tuned  to  Zion's  songs!" 

Music  was  "rendered"  by  an  admirably  trained  choir. 
The  hour  of  the  brass-band  had  not  come  yet  to  Hampden- 
Sidney.  And  the  choir  rendered  sacred  music — such  grand 
old  anthems  as, 


"Awake!  awake!  put  on  thy  strength,  O  Zion! 
Put  on  thy  beautiful  garments"; 


and, 


"How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains 
Are  the  feet  of  him  that  publisheth  salvation; 
That  saith  unto  Zion, 
'Thy  God  reigneth!'" 

Doctor  Maxwell  was  the  president  then,  and  was  por- 
tentous in  my  eyes  in  his  don's  gown. 

Dear  old  Hampdcn-Sidney !  she  has  arisen,  renewed  in 
youth  and  vigor,  from  the  cinders  of  semi-desolation,  has 
cast  aside  the  sackcloth  and  ashes  of  her  grass-widowhood, 
and  stepped  into  the  ranks  of  modern  progress.  I  like 
best  to  recall  her  when  she  maintained  the  prestige  of  her 
traditional  honors  and  refused  to  accept  decadence  as  a 
fixed  fact. 


XI 


BACK  IN  POWHATAN — OLD  VIRGINIA  HOUSEWIFERY — A  SING- 
ING-CLASS  IN  THE   FORTIES — THE    SIMPLE    LIFE? 

My  father's  "ways"  were  so  well  known  by  his  neighbors 
it  was  taken  for  granted  that  the  education  of  his  daugh- 
ters would  not  be  conducted  along  conventional  lines  after 
we  returned  home.  Mr.  Howison  had  completed  his  theo- 
logical course  in  the  seminary,  and  there  were  other  plans 
on  foot,  known  as  yet  to  my  parents  alone,  which  made  the 
engagement  of  another  tutor  inexpedient. 

It  did  not  seem  odd  to  us  then,  but  I  wonder  now  over 
the  routine  laid  down  by  our  father,  and  followed  steadily 
by  us  during  the  next  winter  and  summer.  A  room  in  the 
second  story  was  fitted  up  as  a  "study"  for  the  two  girls. 
Each  had  her  desk  and  her  corner.  Thither  we  repaired 
at  9  o'clock  a.m.  for  five  days  of  the  week,  and  sat  us 
down  to  work.  When  problem,  French  exercise,  history, 
and  rhetoric  lessons  were  prepared,  we  gravely  and  duti- 
fully recited  them  to  each  other;  wrote  French  exercises 
as  carefully  as  if  Mr.  Howison's  eye  were  to  scan  them; 
and  each  corrected  that  of  her  fellow  to  the  best  of  her 
ability.  We  read  history  and  essays  upon  divers  topics 
aloud,  and  discussed  them  freely.  The  course  of  study 
was  marked  out  for  us  by  our  beloved  ex-tutor,  who  wrote 
to  us  from  time  to  time,  in  the  midst  of  other  and  engross- 
ing cares,  in  proof  of  continued  remembrance  and  interest 
in  his  whilom  pupils. 

We  girls  wrought  faithfully  and  happily  until  one  o'clock 

no 


BACK    IN    POWHATAN 

at  our  lessons.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  our  own,  except 
afternoon  hours  which  were  passed  with  our  mother, 
and  in  occupations  directed  by  her.  She  had  inherited 
from  her  mother  taste  and  talent  for  dainty  needlework, 
and,  as  all  sewing  was  done  by  hand,  her  hands  were  always 
full,  although  her  own  maid  was  an  expert  seamstress. 
The  Virginian  matron  of  antebellum  days  never  wielded 
broom  or  duster.  She  did  not  make  beds  or  stand  at 
wash-tub  or  ironing-table.  Yet  she  was  as  busy  in  her 
line  of  housewifely  duty  as  her  "Yankee"  sister. 

Provisions  were  bought  by  the  large  quantity,  and  kept 
in  the  spacious  store-room,  which  was  an  important  section 
of  the  dwelling.  Every  morning  the  cook  was  summoned 
as  soon  as  breakfast  was  fairly  over,  appearing  with  a  big 
wooden  tray  under  her  elbow,  sundry  empty  "buckets" 
slung  upon  her  arm,  and  often  a  pail  on  her  head,  car- 
ried there  because  every  other  available  portion  of  her 
person  was  occupied.  The  two  went  together  to  the  store- 
room, and  materials  for  the  daily  food  of  white  and  black 
households  were  measured  into  the  various  vessels.  The 
notable  housewife  knew  to  a  fraction  how  much  of  the  raw 
products  went  to  the  composition  of  each  dish  she  or- 
dered. So  much  flour  was  required  for  a  loaf  of  rolls,  and 
so  much  for  a  dozen  beaten  biscuits;  a  stated  quantity  of 
butter  was  for  cake  or  pudding;  sugar  was  measured  for 
the  kitchen-table  and  for  that  at  which  the  mistress  would 
sit  with  her  guests.  Molasses  was  poured  into  one  bucket, 
lard  measured  by  the  great  spoonful  into  another;  "bacon- 
middling"  was  cut  off  by  the  chunk  for  cooking  with  vege- 
tables and  for  the  servants'  eating;  hams  and  shoulders 
were  laid  aside  from  the  supply  in  the  smoke-house,  to 
which  the  pair  presently  repaired.  Dried  fruits  in  the 
winter,  spices,  vinegar — the  scores  of  minor  condiments 
and  flavoring  that  were  brought  into  daily  use  in  the  lavish 

provision  for  appetites  accustomed  to  the  fat  of  the  land — 

in 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  "given  out"  as  scrupulously  as  staples.  If  wine  or 
brandy  were  to  be  used  in  sauces,  the  mistress  would 
supply  them  later.  It  was  not  right,  according  to  her 
code,  to  put  temptation  of  that  sort  in  the  way  of  her  de- 
pendants. It  was  certainly  unsafe.  Few  colored  women 
drank.  I  do  not  now  recall  a  solitary  instance  of  that 
kind  in  all  my  experience  with,  and  observation  of  negro 
servants,  before  or  after  the  war.  I  wish  I  could  say  the 
same  for  Scotch,  Irish,  and  German  cooks  whom  I  have 
employed  during  a  half-century  of  active  housewifery. 

Negro  men  were  notoriously  weak  in  that  direction. 
The  most  honest  could  not  resist  the  sight  and  smell  of 
liquor.  The  failing  would  seem  to  be  racial.  It  is  an  es- 
tablished fact  that  when  the  solid  reconstructed  South 
"went  dry"  in  certain  elections,  it  was  in  the  hope  of 
keeping  ardent  spirits  out  of  the  way  of  the  negroes. 

To  return  to  our  housekeeper  of  the  mid-nineteenth  cen- 
tury: The  second  stage  in  the  daily  round  appointed  to 
her  by  custom  and  necessity  was  to  superintend  the  wash- 
ing of  breakfast  china,  glass,  and  silver.  In  seven  cases 
out  of  ten  she  did  the  work  herself,  or  deputed  it  to  her 
daughters.  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  standing 
by  my  mother  as  she  washed  the  breakfast  "things,"  and 
allowed  me  to  polish  the  teaspoons  with  a  tiny  towel  just 
the  right  size  for  my  baby  hands. 

Her  own  hands  were  very  beautiful,  as  were  her  feet. 
To  preserve  her  taper  fingers  from  the  hot  water  in  which 
silver  and  glass  were  washed,  she  wore  gloves,  cutting  off 
the  tips  of  the  fingers.  The  proper  handling  of  "fragiles" 
was  a  fine  art,  and  few  colored  servants  arose  to  the  right 
practice  of  it.  I  have  in  my  memory  the  picture  of  one 
stately  gentlewoman,  serene  of  face  and  dignified  of  speech, 
who  retained  her  seat  at  the  table  when  the  rest  of  us  had 
finished  breakfast.  To  her,  then,  in  dramatic  parlance, 
the  butler,  arrayed  in  long,  white  apron,  sleeves  rolled  to 

112 


OLD    VIRGINIA    HOUSEWIFERY 

the  elbow,  bearing  a  pail  of  cedar-wood  with  bright  brass 
hoops,  three-quarters  full  of  hot  water.  This  he  set  down 
upon  a  small  table  brought  into  the  room  for  the  purpose, 
and  proceeded  to  wash  plates,  cups,  glass,  silver,  etc.,  col- 
lected from  the  board  at  which  madam  still  presided,  a  bit 
of  fancy  knitting  or  crocheting  in  hand,  which  did  not  with- 
draw her  eyes  from  vigilant  attention  to  his  movements. 

Like  surveillance  was  exercised  over  each  branch  of 
housework.  Every  part  of  the  establishment  was  visited 
by  the  mistress  before  she  sat  down  to  the  sewing,  which 
was  her  own  especial  task.  Her  daughters  were  instructed 
in  the  intricacies  of  backstitch,  fell-seams,  overcasting, 
hemstitching,  herringbone,  button-holes,  rolled  and  flat 
hems,  by  the  time  they  let  down  their  frocks  and  put  up 
their  hair.  The  girl  who  had  not  made  a  set  of  chemises 
for  herself  before  she  reached  her  fourteenth  birthday 
was  accounted  slow  to  learn  what  became  a  gentlewoman 
who  expected  to  have  a  home  of  her  own  to  manage  some 
day.  Until  I  was  ten  years  old  I  knit  my  own  stockings 
of  fine,  white  cotton,  soft  as  wool.  Gentlemen  of  the  old 
school  refused  to  wear  socks  and  stockings  bought  over  a 
counter.  In  winter  they  had  woollen,  in  summer  cotton 
foot-gear,  home-knit  by  wives  or  aunts  or  daughters.  We 
embroidered  our  chemise  bands  and  the  ruffles  of  skirts, 
the  undersleevcs  that  came  in  with  "Oriental  sleeves,"  and 
the  broad  collars  that  accompanied  them. 

Reading  aloud  more  often  went  with  the  sewing-circle 
found  in  every  home,  than  gossip.  My  father  set  his  fine, 
strong  face  like  a  flint  against  neighborhood  scandal  and 
tittle-tattle.  "  'They  say'  is  next  door  to  a  lie,"  was  one  of 
the  sententious  sayings  that  silenced  anecdotes  dealing  with 
village  characters  and  doings.  A  more  effectual  quietus 
was:  "Who  says  that?  Never  repeat  a  tale  without  giv- 
ing the  author's  name.  That  is  the  only  honorable  thing 
to  do." 

113 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  do  not  know  that  the  exclusion  of  chit-chat  of  our 
friends  drove  us  to  books  for  entertainment,  when  miles 
of  seams  and  gussets  and  overcasting  lay  between  us  and 
springtime  with  its  outdoor  amusements  and  occupations.  I 
do  say  that  we  did  not  pine  for  evening  "functions,"  for 
luncheons  and  matinees,  when  we  had  plenty  of  books  to 
read  aloud  and  congenial  companions  with  whom  to  dis- 
cuss what  we  read.  Once  a  week  we  had  a  singing-class, 
which  met  around  our  dining-table.  My  father  led  this, 
giving  the  key  with  his  tuning-fork,  and  now  and  then 
accompanying  with  his  flute  a  hymn  in  which  his  tenor 
was  not  needed. 

Have  I  ever  spoken  of  the  singular  fact  that  he  had  "no 
ear  for  music,"  yet  sang  tunefully  and  with  absolute  ac- 
curacy, with  the  notes  before  him  ?  He  could  not  carry  the 
simplest  air  without  the  music-book.  It  was  a  clear  case 
of  a  lack  of  co-ordination  between  ear  and  brain.  He  was 
passionately  fond  of  music,  and  sang  well  in  spite  of  it, 
playing  the  flute  correctly  and  with  taste — always  by  note. 
Take  away  the  printed  or  written  page,  and  he  was  all  at 
sea. 

Those  songful  evenings  were  the  one  dissipation  of  the 
week.  A  singing-master,  the  leader  of  a  Richmond  choir, 
had  had  a  school  at  the  Court  House  the  winter  before,  and 
The  Boston  Academy  was  in  every  house  in  the  village. 
I  could  run  glibly  over  the  names  of  the  regular  attendants 
on  the  Tuesday  evenings  devoted  to  our  musicale.  George 
Moody,  my  father's  good-looking  ward,  now  seventeen, 
and  already  in  love  up  to  his  ears  with  Effie  D.,  my  es- 
pecial crony,  who  was  a  month  my  junior;  Thaddeus 
Ivey,  a  big  blond  of  the  true  Saxon  type,  my  father's 
partner,  and  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  pretty  Lynchburg 
girl ;  James  Ivey,  a  clerk  in  the  employ  of  Hawes  &  Ivey 
— nice  and  quiet  and  gentlemanly,  and  in  love  with  nobody 
that  we  knew  of — these  were  the  bassos.    Once  in  a  while, 

114 


A    SINGING -CLASS    IN    THE    FORTIES 

"Cousin  Joe,"  who  was  busily  engaged  in  a  seven  years' 
courtship  of  a  fair  villager,  Effie's  sister,  joined  us  and  bore 
our  souls  and  voices  aloft  with  the  sonorous  "  brum !  brum !" 
of  a  voice  at  once  rich  and  well-trained.  There  were  five 
sopranos — we  called  it  "the  treble"  then — and  two  women 
sang  "the  second  treble."  One  weak  -  voiced  neighbor 
helped  my  father  out  with  the  tenor.  Until  a  year  or  two 
before  the  singing-master  invaded  the  country,  women  sang 
tenor,  and  the  alto  was  known  as  "counter." 

The  twentieth  century  has  not  quite  repudiated  the 
tunes  we  delighted  in  on  those  winter  nights,  when 

"The  fire,  with  hickory  logs  supplied,  M 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide," 

and  we  lined  both  sides  of  the  long  table,  lighted  by  tall 
sperm-oil  lamps,  and  bent  seriously  happy  faces  over  The 
Boston  Academy,  singing  with  the  spirit  and,  to  the  best 
of  our  ability,  with  the  understanding—  "Lanesboro'  "  and 
"Cambridge"  and  "Hebron"  and  "Boyleston"  and  "Zion," 
and  learning,  with  puckered  brows  and  steadfast  eyes 
glued  to  the  notes,  such  new  tunes  as  "Yarmouth," 
"Anvern,"  and  "Zerah." 

"Sing  at  it!"  my  father  would  command  in  heartsome 
tones,  from  his  stand  at  the  top  of  the  double  line.  "You 
will  never  learn  it  if  you  do  not  make  the  first  trial." 

I  arose  to  my  feet  the  other  day  with  the  rest  of  the  con- 
gregation of  a  fashionable  church  for  a  hymn  which  "every- 
body" was  enjoined  from  the  pulpit  to  "sing." 

When  the  choir  burst  forth  with 

"Triumphant  Zion!     Lift  thy  head!" 

I  dropped  my  head  upon  my  hands  and  sobbed.  Were 
the  words  ever  sung  to  any  other  tune  than  "Anvern," 
I  wonder? 

9  115 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

In  the  interval  of  singing  we  chatted,  laughed,  and  were 
happy.  How  proud  all  of  us  girls  were,  on  one  stormy 
night  when  the  gathering  was  smaller  than  usual,  and  good- 
looking  George — coloring  to  his  ears,  but  resolute — sang 
the  bass  solo  in  the  fourth  line  of  "Cambridge": 

"Resound  their  Maker's  praise!" 

The  rest  caught  the  words  from  his  tongue  and  carried  the 
tune  to  a  conclusion. 

We  sang  until  ten  o'clock;  then  apples,  nuts,  and  cakes 
were  brought  in,  and  sometimes  sweet  cider.  An  hour 
later  we  had  the  house  to  ourselves,  and  knelt  for  evening 
prayers  about  the  fire  before  going  to  bed. 

It  was  an  easy-going  existence,  that  of  the  well-to-do 
Virginia  countryman  of  that  date.  If  there  were  already 
elements  at  work  below  the  surface  that  were  to  heave  the 
fair  level  into  smoking  ruin,  the  rank  and  file  of  the  men 
who  made,  and  who  obeyed  the  laws,  did  not  suspect  it. 

Grumblers  there  were,  and  political  debates  that  ran 
high  and  hot,  but  the  Commonwealth  that  had  supplied 
the  United  States  with  statesmen  and  leaders  since  the 
Constitution  was  framed,  had  no  fear  of  a  dissolution  of 
what  was,  to  the  apprehension  of  those  now  at  the  helm, 
the  natural  order  of  things. 


XII 

ELECTION  DAY  AND  A  DEMOCRATIC  BARBECUE 

The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  and  the  departure  of 
winter  came  suddenly  that  year.  Hyacinths  were  aglow 
in  my  mother's  front  yard  early  in  February,  and  the 
orchards  were  aflame  with  "the  fiery  blossoms  of  the 
peach."  The  earth  awoke  from  sleep  with  a  bound,  and 
human  creatures  thrilled,  as  at  the  presage  of  great  events. 

It  was  the  year  of  the  presidential  election  and  a  cam- 
paign of  extraordinary  importance.  My  father  talked  to 
me  of  what  invested  it  with  this  importance  as  we  walked 
together  down  the  street  one  morning  when  the  smell  of 
open  flowers  and  budding  foliage  was  sweet  in  our  nostrils. 

A  Democratic  barbecue  was  to  be  held  in  a  field  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  just  beyond  "Jordan's  Creek." 
The  stream  took  its  name  from  the  man  whose  plantation 
bounded  it  on  the  west.  The  widening  and  deepening 
into  a  pool  at  the  foot  of  his  garden  made  it  memorable  in 
the  Baptist  Church, 

I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  negro  communicant  in  any 
other  denomination  throughout  the  length  of  the  county. 
And  their  favorite  baptizing-place  was  "Jordan's  Creek." 
I  never  knew  why,  until  my  mother's  maid  —  a  bright 
mulatto,  with  a  smart  cross  of  Indian  blood  in  her  veins— 
"got  through,"  after  mighty  strivings  on  her  part,  and  on 
the  part  of  the  faithful  of  her  own  class  and  complexion, 
and  confided  to  me  her  complacency  in  the  thought  that 
she  was  now  safe  for  time  and  eternity. 

117 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"For,  you  see,  John  the  Babtis',  he  babtized  in  the  River 
Jerdan,  and  Brother  Watkins,  he  babtized  me  in  the  Creek 
Jerdan.     I  s'pose  they  must  be  some  kin  to  one  another?" 

My  father  laughed  and  then  sighed  over  the  story,  when 
I  told  it  as  we  set  out  on  our  walk.  The  religious  beliefs 
and  superstitions  of  the  colored  servants  were  respected 
by  their  owners  to  a  degree  those  who  know  little  of  the 
system  as  it  prevailed  at  that  time,  find  it  hard  to  believe. 
From  babyhood  we  were  taught  never  to  speak  disrespect- 
fully of  the  Baptists,  or  of  the  vagaries  that  passed  with 
the  negroes  for  revealed  truth.  They  had  a  right  to  their 
creeds  as  truly  as  we  had  to  ours. 

This  younger  generation  is  also  incredulous  with  respect 
to  another  fact  connected  with  our  domestic  relations. 
Children  were  trained  in  respectful  speech  to  elderly  ser- 
vants— indeed,  to  all  who  were  grown  men  and  women. 
My  mother  made  me  apologize  once  to  this  same  maid — 
Mary  Anne  by  name — for  telling  her  to  "  Hush  her  mouth !" 
the  old  Virginian  form  of  "Hold  your  tongue!" 

The  blessed  woman  explained  the  cause  of  her  reproof 
when  the  maid  was  out  of  hearing: 

"The  expression  is  unladylike  and  coarse.  Then,  again, 
it  is  mean — despicably  mean ! — to  be  saucy  to  one  who  has 
no  right  to  answer  in  the  same  way.  If  you  must  be  sharp 
in  your  talk,  quarrel  with  your  equals,  not  with  servants, 
who  cannot  meet  you  on  your  own  ground." 

The  admonition  has  stuck  fast  in  my  mind  to  this  day. 

By  the  time  we  turned  the  corner  in  the  direction  of 
Jordan's  Creek,  my  father  and  I  were  deep  in  politics. 
He  was  the  stanchest  of  Whigs,  and  the  ancient  and  hon- 
orable party  had  for  leader,  in  this  year's  fight,  one  whom 
my  instructor  held  to  be  the  wisest  statesman  and  purest 
patriot  in  the  land.  The  ticket,  "  Clay  and  Frelinghuysen," 
was  a  beloved  household  word  with  us;  talk  of  the  tariff, 
protection  and  the  national  debt,  which   Henry    Clay's 

lis 


ELECTION    DAY 

policy  would  wipe  out,  and  forever,  if  opportunity  were 
granted  to  him,  ran  as  glibly  from  our  childish  tongues 
as  dissertations  upon  the  Catholic  bill  and  parliamentary 
action  thereupon  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  Bronte  boy 
and  girls.  There  was  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  in  our  minds 
as  to  the  result  of  the  November  fight. 

"It  seems  a  pity  " — I  observed,  as  we  looked  across  the 
creek  down  into  the  distant  meadow,  where  men  and  boys 
were  moving  to  and  fro,  and  smoke  was  rising  from  fires 
that  had  been  kindled  overnight — "that  the  Democrats 
should  go  to  so  much  expense  and  trouble  only  to  be  de- 
feated at  last." 

"They  may  not  be  so  sure  as  you  are  that  they  are  work- 
ing for  nothing,"  answered  my  father,  smiling  good-humor- 
edly.  "They  have  had  some  victories  to  boast  of  in  the 
past." 

"Yes!"  I  assented,  reluctantly.  "As,  for  instance, 
when  Colonel  Hopkins  was  sent  to  the  Legislature !  Father, 
I  wish  you  had  agreed  to  go  when  they  begged  you  to  let 
them  elect  you!" 

The  smile  was  now  a  laugh. 

"To  nominate  me,  you  mean.  A  very  different  matter 
from  election,  my  daughter.  Not  that  I  cared  for  either. 
If  I  may  be  instrumental  in  the  hands  of  Providence  in 
helping  to  put  the  right  man  into  the  right  place,  my 
political  ambitions  will  be  satisfied." 

"I  do  hope  that  Powhatan  will  go  for  Clay!"  ejaculated 
I,  fervently.  "And  I  think  it  an  outrage  that  the  Rich- 
mond voters  cannot  come  up  to  the  help  of  the  right,  at 
the  presidential  election." 

"The  law  holds  that  the  real  strength  of  the  several 
states  would  not  be  properly  represented  if  this  were  al- 
lowed," was  the  reply. 

I  saw  the  justice  of  the  law  later  in  life.  Then  it  was 
oppressive,  to  my  imagination. 

119 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

That  most  doubtful  blessing  of  enlightened  freemen — 
universal  suffrage — had  not  as  yet  been  thrust  upon  the 
voters  of  the  United  States.  In  Virginia,  the  man  who 
held  the  franchise  must  not  only  be  "free,  white,  and 
twenty-one,"  but  he  must  be  a  land-owner  to  the  amount 
of  at  least  twenty-five  dollars.  Any  free  white  of  the 
masculine  gender  owning  twenty-five  dollars'  worth  of 
real  estate  in  any  county  had  a  vote  there.  If  he  owned 
lands  of  like  value  in  ten  counties,  he  might  deposit  a  vote 
in  each  of  them,  if  he  could  reach  them  all  between  sunrise 
and  sunset  on  Election  Day.  It  was  esteemed  a  duty  by 
the  Richmond  voter — the  city  being  overwhelmingly  Whig 
— to  distribute  his  influence  among  doubtful  counties  in 
which  he  was  a  property-holder.  He  held  and  believed 
for  certain  that  he  had  a  right  to  protect  his  interests 
wherever  they  might  lie. 

Powhatan  was  a  doubtful  factor  in  the  addition  of 
election  returns.  Witness  the  election  to  the  Legislature 
at  different  periods  of  such  Democrats  as  Major  Jacob 
Michaux — from  a  James  River  plantation  held  by  his  grand- 
father by  a  royal  grant  since  the  Huguenots  sought  refuge 
in  Virginia  from  French  persecutors — and  of  the  Colonel 
Hopkins  whom  I  had  named.  This  last  was  personally 
popular,  a  man  of  pleasing  address  and  fair  oratorical 
powers,  and  represented  an  influential  neighborhood  in 
the  centre  of  the  county.  A  most  worthy  gentleman,  as 
I  now  know.  Then  I  classed  him  with  Jesuits  and  tyrants. 
I  had  overheard  a  sanguine  Democrat  declare  in  the  heat 
of  political  argument  that  "Henry  L.  Hopkins  would  be 
President  of  the  United  States  some  day."  To  which  my 
father  retorted,  "When  that  day  comes  I  shall  cross  the 
ocean  and  swear  allegiance  to  Queen  Victoria." 

When  I  repeated  the  direful  threat  to  my  mother,  she 
laughed  and  bade  me  give  myself  no  uneasiness  on  the 
subject,  as  nothing  was  more  unlikely  than  that  Colonel 

120 


ELECTION    DAY 

Hopkins  would  ever  go  to  the  White  House.  Neverthe- 
less, I  always  associated  that  amiable  and  courtly  gentle- 
man with  our  probable  expatriation. 

Election  Day  was  ever  an  event  of  moment  with  us  chil- 
dren. From  the  time  when  I  was  tall  enough  to  peep  over 
the  vine-draped  garden-fence — until  I  was  reckoned  too  big 
to  stand  and  stare  in  so  public  a  place,  and  was  allowed 
to  join  the  seniors  who  watched  the  street  from  behind 
the  blinds  and  between  the  sprays  of  the  climbing  roses 
shading  the  front  windows — it  was  my  delight  to  inspect 
and  pronounce  upon  the  groups  that  filled  the  highway 
all  day  long.  Children  are  violent  partisans,  and  we  sepa- 
rated the  sheep  from  the  goats — id  est,  the  Whigs  from 
the  Democrats — as  soon  as  the  horsemen  became  visible 
through  the  floating  yellow  dust  of  the  roads  running  from 
each  end  of  the  street  back  into  the  country.  One  neigh- 
borhood in  the  lower  end  of  the  county,  bordering  upon 
Chesterfield,  was  familiarly  known  as  the  "  Yellow  Jacket 
region."  It  took  its  name,  according  to  popular  belief, 
from  the  butternut  and  nankeen  stuffs  that  were  worn  by 
men  and  women.  The  term  had  a  sinister  meaning  to  us, 
although  it  was  sufficiently  explained  by  the  costume  of 
the  voters,  who  seldom  appeared  at  the  Court  House  in 
force  except  upon  Election  Day.  They  arrived  early  in 
the  forenoon — a  straggling  procession  of  sad-faced  citizens, 
or  so  we  fancied — saying  little  to  one  another,  and  looking 
neither  to  the  left  nor  the  right  as  their  sorrel  nags  paced 
up  the  middle  of  the  wide,  irregularly  built  street.  I  did 
not  understand  then,  nor  do  I  now,  their  preference  for 
sorrel  horses.  Certain  it  is  that  there  were  four  of  that 
depressing  hue  to  one  black,  bay,  or  gray.  So  badly 
groomed  were  the  poor  beasts,  and  so  baggy  were  the 
nankeen  trousers  of  the  men  who  bestrode  them,  that  a 
second  look  was  needed  to  determine  where  the  rider  ended 
and  the  steed  began.     We  noted,  with  disdainful  glee,  that 

121 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  Yellow  Jacket  folk  turned  the  corner  of  the  crossway 
flanking  our  garden,  and  so  around  the  back  of  the  public 
square  enclosing  Court  House,  clerk's  office,  and  jail.  There 
they  tethered  the  sorry  beasts  to  the  fence,  shook  down  a 
peck  or  so  of  oats  from  bags  they  had  fastened  behind  their 
saddles,  and  shambled  into  the  square  to  be  lost  in  the 
gathering  crowd. 

As  they  rode  through  the  village,  ill  -  mannered  boys 
chanted : 

"Democrats — 
They  eat  rats! 
But  Whigs 
Eat  pigs!" 

Bacon  being  a  product  for  which  the  state  was  famed,  the 
distinction  was  invidious  to  the  last  degree.  My  mother 
never  let  us  take  up  the  scandalous  doggerel.  She  said  it 
was  vulgar,  untrue,  and  unkind.  It  was  not  her  fault  that 
each  of  us  had  the  private  belief  that  there  was  a  spice  of 
truth  in  it. 

When  we  saw  a  smart  tilbury,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  glossy 
horses,  stop  before  the  "Bell  Tavern"  opposite  our  house, 
the  occupants  spring  to  the  ground  and  leave  the  equipage 
to  the  hostlers — who  rushed  from  the  stables  at  sound  of 
the  clanging  bell  pulled  by  the  landlord  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  carriage — we  said  in  unison; 

"They  are  Whigs!" 

We  were  as  positive  as  to  the  politics  of  the  men  who 
rode  blooded  hunters  and  wore  broadcloth  and  tall,  shining 
hats.  The  Yellow  Jacket  head-gear  was  drab  in  color, 
uncertain  in  shape. 

It  seemed  monstrous  to  our  intolerant  youth  that  "poor 
white  folksy"  men  should  have  an  equal  right  with  gentle- 
men, born  and  bred,  in  deciding  who  should  represent  the 
county  in  the  Legislature  and  the  district  in  Congress. 

122 


ELECTION    DAY 

The  crowning  excitement  of  the  occasion  was  reserved 
for  the  afternoon.  As  early  as  three  o'clock  I  was  used  to 
see  my  father  come  out  of  the  door  of  his  counting-room 
over  the  way,  watch  in  hand,  and  look  down  the  Richmond 
road.  Presently  he  would  be  joined  there  by  one,  two, 
or  three  others,  and  they  compared  timepieces,  looking  up 
at  the  westering  sun,  their  faces  graver  and  gestures  more 
energetic  as  the  minutes  sped  by.  The  junta  of  women 
sympathizers  behind  the  vine-curtains  began  to  speculate 
as  to  the  possibility  of  accident  to  man,  beast,  or  carriage, 
and  we  children  inquired,  anxiously,  "What  would  happen 
if  the  Richmond  voters  did  not  come,  after  all?" 

"No  fear  of  that!"  we  were  assured,  our  mother  add- 
ing, with  modest  pride,  "Your  father  has  attended  to  the 
matter." 

They  always  came.  Generally  the  cloud  of  distant  dust, 
looming  high  and  fast  upon  the  wooded  horizon,  was  the 
first  signal  of  the  reinforcements  for  the  Whig  party. 
Through  this  we  soon  made  out  a  train  of  ten  or  twelve 
carriages,  and  perhaps  as  many  horsemen— a  triumphal 
cortege  that  rolled  and  caracoled  up  the  street  amid  the 
cheers  of  expectant  fellow-voters  and  of  impartial  urchins, 
glad  of  any  chance  to  hurrah  for  anybody.  The  most  im- 
portant figure  to  me  in  the  scene  was  my  father,  as  with 
feigned  composure  he  walked  slowly  to  the  head  of  the 
front  steps,  and  lifted  his  hat  in  courteous  acknowledgment 
of  the  hands  and  hats  waved  to  him  from  carriage  and  sad- 
dle-bow. If  I  thought  of  Alexander,  Napoleon,  and  Wash- 
ington, I  am  not  ashamed  to  recollect  it  now. 

That  child  has  been  defrauded  who  has  not  had  a  hero 
in  his  own  home. 

I  was  at  no  loss  to  know  who  mine  was,  on  this  bland 
spring  morning,  as  my  father  and  I  leaned  on  a  fence  on 
the  hither  side  of  the  creek  and  watched  the  proceedings 
of  the  cooks  and  managers  about  the  al  fresco  kitchen. 

123 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Too  many  cooks  spoil  the  dinner!"  quoth  I,  as  negroes 
bustled  from  fire  to  fire,  and  white  men  yelled  their  orders 
and  counter-orders.  "Not  that  it  matters  much  what  kind 
of  victuals  are  served  at  a  Democratic  barbecue,  so  long  as 
there  is  plenty  to  drink." 

"Easy,  easy,  daughter!"  smiled  my  auditor.  "There 
are  good  men  and  true  in  the  other  party.  We  are  in 
danger  of  forgetting  that." 

"None  as  good  and  great  as  Mr.  Clay,  father?" 

He  raised  his  hat  slightly  and  involuntarily.  "I  do  not 
think  he  has  his  equal  as  man  and  pure  patriot  in  this,  or 
any  other  country.     God  defend  the  right!" 

"You  are  not  afraid  lest  Polk" — drawling  the  mono- 
syllable in  derision — "will  beat  him,  father?" 

The  smile  was  a  laugh — happily  confident. 

"Hardly !  I  have  more  faith  in  human  nature  and  in  the 
common-sense  of  the  American  people  than  to  think  that 
they  will  pass  over  glorious  Harry  of  the  West,  and  forget 
his  distinguished  services  to  the  nation,  to  set  in  the  presi- 
dential chair  an  obscure  demagogue  who  has  done  nothing. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  down  there  and  see  half  an  ox 
roasted,  and  a  whole  sheep?" 

We  crossed  the  stream  upon  a  shaking  plank  laid  from 
bank  to  bank,  and  strolled  down  the  slope  to  the  scene  of 
operations.  An  immense  kettle  was  swung  over  a  fire  of 
logs  that  were  so  many  living  coals.  The  smell  of  Bruns- 
wick stew  had  been  wafted  to  us  while  we  leaned  on  the 
fence.  A  young  man,  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  an 
epicure,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and  ability,  superin- 
tended the  manufacture  of  the  famous  delicacy. 

"Two  dozen  chickens  went  into  it!"  he  assured  us. 
"They  wanted  to  make  me  think  it  couldn't  be  made  with- 
out green  corn  and  fresh  tomatoes.  I  knew  a  trick  worth 
two  of  that.  I  have  worked  it  before  with  dried  tomatoes 
and  dried  sweet  corn  soaked  overnight." 

124 


A    DEMOCRATIC    BARBECUE 

He  smacked  his  lips  and  winked  fatuously. 

"I've  great  confidence  in  your  culinary  skill,"  was  the 
good-natured  rejoinder. 

I  recollected  that  I  had  heard  my  father  say  of  this 
very  youth: 

"I  am  never  hard  upon  a  fellow  who  is  a  fool  because  he 
can't  help  it!"  But  I  wondered  at  his  gentleness  when  the 
epicure  prattled  on: 

"Yes,  sir!  a  stew  like  this  is  fit  for  Democrats  to 
eat.  I  wouldn't  give  a  Whig  so  much  as  a  smell  of  the 
pot!" 

"You  ought  to  have  a  tighter  lid,  then,"  with  the  same 
good-humored  intonation,  and  we  passed  on  to  see  the 
roasts.  Shallow  pits,  six  or  seven  feet  long  and  four  feet 
wide,  were  half  filled  with  clear  coals  of  hard  hickory 
billets.  Iron  bars  were  laid  across  these,  gridiron-like,  and 
half-bullocks  and  whole  sheep  were  cooking  over  the 
scarlet  embers.  There  were  six  pits,  each  with  its  roast. 
The  spot  for  the  speakers'  rostrum  and  the  seats  of  the 
audience  was  well-selected.  A  deep  spring  welled  up  in  a 
grove  of  maples.  The  fallen  red  blossoms  carpeted  the 
ground,  and  the  young  leaves  supplied  grateful  shade. 
The  meadows  sloped  gradually  toward  the  spring;  rude 
benches  of  what  we  called  "puncheon  logs" — that  is,  the 
trunks  of  trees  hewed  in  half,  and  the  flat  sides  laid  upper- 
most— were  ranged  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre. 

"You  have  a  fine  day  for  the  meeting,"  observed  my 
father  to  the  master  of  ceremonies,  a  planter  from  the 
Genito  neighborhood,  who  greeted  the  visitors  cordially. 

"Yes,  sir!  The  Lord  is  on  our  side,  and  no  mistake!" 
returned  the  other,  emphatically.  "Don't  you  see  that 
yourself,  Mr.  Hawes!" 

"I  should  not  venture  to  base  my  faith  upon  the  weath- 
er," his  eyes  twinkling  while  he  affected  gravity,  "for  we 
read  that  He  sends  His  rain  and  sunshine  upon  the  evil 

125 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  the  good.  Good-morning!  I  hope  the  affair  will  be 
as  pleasant  as  the  day." 

Our  father  took  his  family  into  confidence  more  freely 
than  any  other  man  I  ever  knew.  We  were  taught  not  to 
prattle  to  outsiders  of  what  was  said  and  done  at  home. 
At  ten  years  of  age  I  was  used  to  hearing  affairs  of  personal 
and  business  moment  canvassed  by  my  parents  and  my 
father's  partner,  who  had  been  an  inmate  of  our  house 
from  his  eighteenth  year — intensely  interested  to  the  ut- 
most of  my  comprehension  and  drawing  my  own  conclu- 
sions privately,  yet  understanding  all  the  while  that  what- 
ever I  heard  and  thought  was  not  to  be  spoken  of  to 
schoolmate  or  visitor. 

It  was  not  unusual  for  my  father  to  confide  to  me  in 
our  early  morning  rides — for  he  was  my  riding-master — 
some  scheme  he  was  considering  pertaining  to  church, 
school,  or  purchase,  talking  of  it  as  to  an  equal  in  age  and 
intelligence.  I  hearkened  eagerly,  and  was  flattered  and 
honored  by  the  distinction  thus  conferred.  He  never 
charged  me  not  to  divulge  what  was  committed  to  me. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  added,  "I  know  I  am  safe  in  telling 
you  this."  After  which  the  thumb-screw  could  not  have 
extracted  a  syllable  of  the  communication  from  me. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  morning  rides  that  he  un- 
folded a  plan  suggested,  as  he  told  me,  by  our  visit  to  the 
Democratic  barbecue-ground  some  weeks  before. 

We  had  to  rise  betimes  to  secure  a  ride  of  tolerable  length 
before  the  warmth  of  the  spring  and  summer  days  made 
the  exercise  fatiguing  and  unpleasant.  A  glass  of  milk 
and  a  biscuit  were  brought  to  me  while  I  was  dressing  in 
the  gray  dawn,  and  I  would  join  my  escort  at  the  front 
gate,  where  stood  the  hostler  with  both  horses,  while  the 
east  was  yet  but  faintly  colored  by  the  unseen  sun. 

We  were  pacing  quietly  along  a  plantation  road  five 
miles  from  the  Court  House,  and  I  was  dreamily  enjoying 

126 


A    DEMOCRATIC    BARBECUE 

the  fresh  taste  of  the  dew-laden  air  upon  my  lips,  and  in- 
haling the  scent  of  the  wild  thyme  and  sheep-mint,  bruised 
by  the  horses'  hoofs,  when  my  companion,  who,  I  had  seen, 
had  been  in  a  brown  study  for  the  last  mile,  began  with : 

"I  have  been  thinking — "  The  sure  prelude  to  some- 
thing worth  hearing,  or  so  I  believed  then. 

A  Whig  rally  was  meditated.  He  had  consulted  with 
three  of  his  friends  as  to  the  scheme  born  of  his  brain,  and 
there  would  be  a  meeting  of  perhaps  a  dozen  leading  men 
of  the  party  in  his  counting-room  that  afternoon.  The 
affair  was  not  to  be  spoken  of  until  date  and  details  were 
settled.  My  heart  swelled  with  pride  in  him,  and  in  my- 
self as  his*  chosen  confidante,  as  he  went  on.  The  recol- 
lection of  the  scenes  succeeding  the  barbecue  was  fresh 
in  our  minds,  and  the  memory  sharpened  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  methods  of  the  rival  parties. 

I  was  brimful  of  excitement  when  I  got  home,  and  the 
various  novelties  of  the  impending  event  in  the  history  of 
county  politics  and  village  life  were  the  staple  of  neigh- 
borhood talk  for  the  weeks  dividing  that  morning  ride 
from  the  mid-May  day  of  the  "rally." 

That  was  what  they  called  it,  for  it  was  not  to  be  a  bar- 
becue, although  a  collation  would  be  served  in  the  grounds 
surrounding  the  Grove  Hotel,  situated  in  the  centre  of  the 
hamlet,  and  separated  from  the  public  square  by  one 
street.  The  meeting  and  the  speaking  would  be  in  the 
grove  at  the  rear  of  the  Court  House.  Seats  were  to  be 
arranged  among  the  trees.  It  was  at  my  father's  instance 
and  his  expense  that  the  benches  would  be  covered  with 
white  cotton  cloth— "  muslin, "  in  Northern  parlance.  This 
was  in  special  compliment  to  the  "ladies  who,  it  was 
hoped,  would  compose  a  great  part  of  the  audience." 

This  was  the  chief  est  innovation  of  all  that  set  tongues 
to  wagging  in  three  counties.  The  wives  and  mothers 
and  daughters  of  voters  were  cordially  invited  by  placards 

127 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

strewed  broadcast  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Powhatan.  The  like  had  never  been  heard  of  within  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  It  was  universally  felt 
that  the  step  practically  guaranteed  the  county  for  Clay 
and  Frelinghuysen. 


XIII 

A   WHIG    RALLY   AND    MUSTER    DAY 

The  day  dawned  heavenly  fair,  and  waxed  gloriously 
bright  by  the  time  the  preparations  for  the  reception  of 
the  guests  were  completed.  The  dust  had  been  laid  by 
an  all-day  rain  forty-eight  hours  before.  Every  blade  of 
grass  and  the  leaves,  which  rustled  joyously  overhead, 
shone  as  if  newly  varnished.  At  ten  o'clock  all  the  sitting- 
space  was  occupied,  three-fourths  of  the  assembly  being  of 
the  fairer  sex.  Half  an  hour  later  there  was  not  standing- 
room  within  the  sound  of  the  orators'  voices.  A  better- 
dressed,  better-mannered  crowd  never  graced  a  political 
"occasion."  All  were  in  summer  gala  attire,  and  all  were 
seated  without  confusion.  My  father,  as  chairman  of  the 
committee  of  arrangements,  had  provided  for  every  stage 
of  the  proceeding.  It  was  by  a  motion,  made  by  him  and 
carried  by  acclamation,  that  Captain  Miller,  "a  citizen  of 
credit  and  renown,"  was  called  to  preside. 

As  if  it  had  happened  last  week,  I  can,  in  fancy,  see  each 
feature  of  this,  the  most  stupendous  function  that  had 
ever  entered  my  young  life.  I  suppose  there  may  have 
been  five  hundred  people  present.  I  would  have  said,  un- 
hesitatingly, "five  thousand,"  if  asked  to  make  the  com- 
putation. I  wore,  for  the  first  time,  a  sheer  lawn  frock — 
the  longest  I  had  ever  had,  but,  as  my  mother  explained 
to  the  village  dressmaker — Miss  Judy  Cardozo — "Virginia 
is  growing  so  fast,  we  would  better  have  it  rather  long  to 
begin  with."     I  secretly  rejoiced  in  the  sweep  of  the  full 

129 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

skirt  down  to  my  heels,  as  giving  me  a  young-ladylike 
appearance.  "Thad"  Ivey,  always  kind  to  me,  and  not 
less  jolly  because  he  was  soon  to  be  a  married  man,  meet- 
ing me  on  the  way  up  the  street,  declared  that  I  had 
"really  a  ball-room  air."  My  hair  was  "done"  in  two 
braids  and  tied  with  white  ribbon  figured  with  pale-purple 
and  green  flowers.  Sprigs  of  the  same  color  decorated  the 
white  ground  of  my  lawn.  I  carried  a  white  fan,  and  I  sat, 
with  great  delight,  between  my  mother  and  Cousin  Mary. 

"'And  bright 
The  sun  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men/  " 

murmured  a  gallant  Whig  to  the  row  of  women  behind  us. 

"Isn't  that  strange!"  whispered  I  to  Cousin  Mary; 
"those  lines  have  been  running  in  my  mind  ever  since  we 
came." 

Not  strange,  as  I  now  know.  Everybody  read  and 
quoted  "Childe  Harold"  at  that  period,  and  I  may  add, 
took  liberties  with  the  text  of  favorite  poems  to  suit  them 
to  the  occasion. 

When  the  round  of  applause  that  greeted  the  appear- 
ance of  Captain  Miller  upon  the  platform  subsided,  every- 
thing grew  suddenly  so  still  that  I  heard  the  leaves  rustling 
over  our  heads.  His  was  not  an  imposing  presence,  but 
he  had  a  stainless  reputation  as  a  legislator  and  a  Whig, 
and  was  highly  respected  as  a  man.  He  began  in  exactly 
these  words: 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen — fellow-citizens,  all ! — it  behooves 
us,  always  and  everywhere,  before  entering  upon  the  prose- 
cution of  any  important  enterprise,  to  invoke  the  presence 
and  blessing  of  Almighty  God.  We  will,  therefore,  be  now 
led  in  prayer  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Cams." 

My  uncle-in-law  "offered"  a  tedious  petition,  too  long- 
winded  to  please  the  average  politician  perhaps,  but  it 
was  generally  felt  that  a  younger  man  and  newer  resident 

130 


A    WHIG    RALLY 

could  not  have  been  called  upon  without  incivility  verg- 
ing upon  disrespect  to  a  venerable  citizen.  The  invocation 
over,  the  presiding  officer  announced  that  "the  Whigs, 
in  obedience  to  the  spirit  of  fair  play  to  all,  and  injustice 
to  none,  that  had  ever  characterized  the  party,  would  to- 
day grant  to  their  honored  opponents,  the  Democrats,  the 
opportunity  of  replying  publicly  to  the  arguments  ad- 
vanced in  the  addresses  of  those  representing  the  principles 
in  the  interest  of  which  the  present  assembly  had  been 
convened.  The  first  speaker  of  the  day  would  be  the  Hon. 
Holden  Rhodes,  of  Richmond.  The  second  would  be  one 
almost  as  well  known  to  the  citizens  of  county  and  state — 
the  Hon.  John  Winston  Jones,  of  Chesterfield.  The  Whigs 
reserved  to  themselves  the  last  and  closing  address  of  the 
day  by  the  Lion.  Watkins  Leigh,  of  Richmond." 

Nothing  could  be  fairer  and  more  courteous,  it  seemed 
to  me.  In  the  hum  of  approval  that  rippled  through  the 
assembly  it  was  apparent  that  others  held  the  like  senti- 
ment. Likewise,  that  the  "Honorable  Chairman"  had 
scored  another  point  for  the  magnanimous  Whigs.  But 
then— as  I  whispered  to  my  indulgent  neighbor  on  the 
left — they  could  afford  to  surrender  an  advantage  or  two 
to  the  party  they  were  going  to  whip  out  of  existence. 

Holden  Rhodes  was  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  his  speech 
was  a  trifle  too  professional  in  sustained  and  unoratorical 
argument  for  my  taste  and  mental  reach.  I  recall  it 
chiefly  because  of  a  comical  interruption  that  enlivened 
the  hour-long  exposition  of  party  creeds. 

I  have  drawn  in  my  book,  Judith,  a  full-length  portrait 
of  one  of  the  men  of  marked  individuality  who  made 
Powhatan  celebrated  in  the  history  of  a  state  remarkable 
in  every  period  for  strongly  defined  public  characters.  In 
Judith  I  named  this  man  "Captain  Macon."  In  real  life 
he  was  Capt.  John  Cocke,  a  scion  of  a  good  old  family,  a 
planter  of  abundant  means,  and  the  father  of  sons  who 
10  131 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  already  beginning  to  take  the  place  in  the  public 
eye  he  had  held  for  fifty  years.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  his 
once  lofty  head  slightly  bowed  by  years  and — it  was 
hinted — by  high  living.  He  had  been  handsome,  and  his 
glance  was  still  piercing,  his  bearing  distinguished.  I  ever 
cherished,  as  I  might  value  a  rare  antique,  the  incident  of 
his  introduction  to  that  stalwart  dame,  my  New  England 
grandmother,  who  had  now  been  a  member  of  our  fam- 
ily for  three  years. 

We  were  on  our  way  home  after  service  at  Fine  Creek, 
and  the  carriage  had  stopped  at  a  wayside  spring  to  water 
the  horses.  Captain  Cocke  stood  by  the  spring,  his  bridle 
rein  thrown  over  his  arm  while  his  horse  stooped  to  the 
"branch"  flowing  across  the  highway.  Expecting  to  see 
my  mother  in  the  carriage,  he  took  off  his  hat  and  ap- 
proached the  window. 

"This  is  my  mother,  Captain,"  said  my  father,  raising 
his  voice  slightly,  as  he  then  named  the  new-comer  to  her 
deaf  ears. 

The  old  cavalier  bowed  low,  his  hand  upon  his  heart: 
"Madam,  I  am  the  friend  of  your  son.  I  can  say  nothing 
more  to  a  mother!" 

The  fine  courtesy,  the  graceful  deference  to  age,  the  in- 
stant adaptation  of  manner  and  words  to  the  circum- 
stances, have  set  the  episode  aside  in  my  heart  as  a  gem 
of  its  kind. 

He  wore  on  that  Sunday,  and  he  wore  on  every  other 
day  the  year  around,  a  scarlet  hunting-coat.  I  wonder  if 
there  were  more  eccentrics  in  Virginia  in  that  generation 
than  are  to  be  met  with  there — or  anywhere  else — nowa- 
days? Certain  it  is  that  nobody  thought  of  inquiring  why 
Captain  Cocke,  whose  ancestors  had  served  under  Wash- 
ington and  Lafayette  in  the  war  for  freedom,  chose  to  sport 
the  British  livery.  We  had  ceased  to  remark  upon  it  by 
the  time  I  write  of.     When  strangers  expressed  wonder- 

132 


A    WHIG    RALLY 

ment  at  the  queer  garb,  we  had  a  resentful  impression  of 
officiousness. 

Mr.  Rhodes,  with  the  rest  of  his  party,  was  thoroughly 
dissatisfied  with  the  policy  (or  want  of  policy)  of  John 
Tyler,  who  had  been  called  to  the  presidential  chair  by  the 
untimely  death  of  Gen.  W.  H.  Harrison.  In  the  progress 
of  his  review  of  national  affairs,  he  came  to  this  name  when 
he  had  spoken  half  an  hour  or  so. 

Whereupon  uprose  the  majestic  figure  clad  in  scarlet, 
from  his  seat  a  few  feet  away  from  the  platform.  The 
Captain  straightened  his  bent  shoulders  and  lifted  lean 
arms  and  quivering  fingers  toward  heaven.  The  red  tan 
of  his  weather-beaten  cheeks  was  a  dusky  crimson. 

"The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  the  nation!"  he  cried,  his 
voice  solemn  with  wrath,  and  sonorous  with  the  potency 
of  the  mint-juleps  for  which  "The  Bell"  was  noted.  "Fel- 
low-citizens! I  always  cry  to  High  Heaven  for  mercy  upon 
this  country  when  John  Tyler's  name  is  mentioned !  Amen 
and  amen!" 

He  had  a  hearty  round  of  applause  mingled  with  echoes 
of  his  "aniens"  and  much  good-humored  laughter.  They 
all  knew  and  loved  the  Captain.  I  felt  the  blood  rush  to 
my  face,  and  I  saw  others  glance  around  reprovingly  when 
a  city  girl  who  sat  behind  me,  and  carried  on  a  whis- 
pered flirtation  with  a  fopling  at  her  side  during  Mr. 
Rhodes's  speech,  drawled: 

"What  voice  from  the  tombs  is  that?" 

Mrs.  James  Saunders,  nee  Mary  Cocke,  was  my  mother's 
right-hand  neighbor.  With  perfect  temper  and  an  agree- 
able smile,  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  into  the  babyish 
face  of  the  cockney  guest — ■ 

"That  is  my  Uncle  John,"  she  uttered,  courteously. 

Whereat  all  within  hearing  smiled,  and  the  young  wom- 
an had  the  grace  to  blush. 

Mr.  Rhodes  was  speaking  again,  and  the  audience  was 

133 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

respectfully  attentive.  The  orator  made  clever  use  of 
the  Captain's  interruption.  The  manner  of  it  offended 
nobody.  John  Tyler  was,  perhaps,  the  most  unpopular 
man  in  the  Union  at  that  particular  time.  The  Democrats 
had  no  use  for  him,  and  he  had  disappointed  his  own  party. 
When  the  smoke  and  dust  of  political  skirmishing  cleared 
away,  Virginians  did  something  like  justice  to  his  motives 
and  his  talents.  Twenty  years  thereafter,  my  early  pre- 
possessions, engendered  by  the  vituperative  eloquence  of 
the  Clay  campaign,  were  corrected  by  a  quiet  remark  made 
by  my  father  to  a  man  who  spoke  slightingly  of  the  ex- 
President  : 

"The  man  who  chose  the  cabinet  that  served  during 
Tyler's  administration  was  neither  fool  nor  traitor." 

John  Winston  Jones  demolished  the  fair  fabric  Mr. 
Rhodes  had  spent  so  much  time  and  labor  in  constructing 
that  I  began  to  yawn  before  the  lively  Democrat  woke  me 
up.  I  recollect  that  he  was  pungent  and  funny,  and  that 
I  was  interested,  despite  his  sacrilegious  treatment  of  what 
I  regarded  as  sacred  themes. 

It  was  a  telling  point  when  he  drew  deliberately  a  wicked- 
looking  jack-knife  from  his  breeches  pocket,  opened  it  as 
deliberately,  and,  turning  toward  Mr.  Rhodes,  who  sat  at 
his  left,  said: 

"  If  I  were  to  plunge  this  into  the  bosom  of  my  friend  and 
respected  opponent  (and  I  beg  to  assure  him  that  I  shall 
not  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head,  now  or  ever!),  would  I  be  re- 
garded as  his  benefactor?  Yet  that  is  what  General  Jack- 
son did  to  the  system  of  bank  monopolies,"  etc. 

I  did  not  follow  him  further.  For  a  startled  second  I 
had  really  thought  we  were  to  have  a  "scene."  I  had 
heard  that  Democrats  were  bloodthirsty  by  nature,  and 
that  sanguinary  outbreaks  attended  political  demonstra- 
tions and  cataracts  of  bad  whiskey. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  Hon.  Watkins  Leigh — 

134 


A    WHIG    RALLY 

a  distinguished  member  of  the  Richmond  bar,  famous  for 
legal  acumen  and  forensic  oratory  —  made  quick  and 
thorough  work  in  the  destruction  of  Mr.  Jones's  building, 
and  sent  the  Whigs  home  with  what  I  heard  my  mother 
describe  as  "a  good  taste  in  their  mouths." 

The  orations  were  interspersed  with  "patriotic  songs." 
A  quartette  of  young  men,  picked  out  by  the  committee 
of  arrangements,  for  their  fine  voices  and  stanch  Whiggery, 
stood  on  the  platform  and  sang  the  body  of  the  ballads. 
The  choruses  were  shouted,  with  more  force  and  good-will 
than  tunefulness,  by  masculine  voters  of  all  ages  and 
qualities  of  tone. 

Doctor  Henning,  an  able  physician,  and  as  eccentric  in 
his  way  as  Captain  Cocke  in  his,  stood  near  my  father,  his 
back  against  a  tree,  his  mouth  wide,  and  all  the  volume  of 
sound  he  could  pump  from  his  lungs  pouring  skyward  in 
the  refrain  of 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  you're  all  unlucky; 
Clear  the  track  for  Old   Kentucky!" — 

when  his  eye  fell  upon  a  young  man,  who,  having  no  more 
ear  or  voice  than  the  worthy  Galen  himself,  contented  him- 
self with  listening.  As  the  quartette  began  the  next  verse, 
the  Doctor  collared  "Abe"  Cardozo  (whom,  by  the  way, 
he  had  assisted  to  bring  into  the  world),  and  actually  shook 
him  in  the  energy  of  his  patriotism — 

"Abraham  James!   why  don't  you  sing?" 

"Me,  Doctor?"  stammered  the  young  fellow,  who  prob- 
ably had  not  heard  his  middle  name  in  ten  years  before 
— "I  never  sang  a  note  in  my  life!" 

"Then  begin  now!"  commanded  the  Doctor,  setting  the 
example  as  the  chorus  began  anew. 

How  my  father  laughed!  backing  out  of  sight  of  the 
pair,  and  doubling  himself  up  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
scene,  real  bright  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks.     I  heard 

135 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

him  rehearse  the  incident  twenty  times  in  after-years,  and 
always  with  keen  delight.  For  the  Doctor  was  a  scholar 
and  a  dreamer,  as  well  as  a  skilful  practitioner,  renowned 
for  his  horticultural  and  ornithological  successes,  and  so 
taciturn  and  absent-minded  that  he  seldom  took  part  in 
general  conversation.  That  he  should  have  been  drawn 
out  of  his  shell  to  the  extent  of  roaring  out  ungrammatical 
doggerel  in  a  public  assembly  of  his  fellow-citizens,  was  a 
powerful  proof  of  the  tremendous  force  of  party  enthusiasm. 
The  incongruity  of  the  whole  affair  appealed  to  my  father's 
ever-active  sense  of  humor.  He  would  wind  up  the  story 
by  asserting  that  "it  would  have  made  Jeremiah  chuckle 
if  he  had  known  both  of  the  actors  in  the  by-play." 

One  specimen  of  the  ballads  that  flooded  the  land  in 
the  fateful  1844  will  give  some  idea  of  the  tenor  of  all: 

Tune:   "Ole  Dan  Tucker" 
"The  moon  was  shining  silver  bright,  the  stars  with  glory 
crowned  the  night, 
High  on  -a  limb  that  'same  old  Coon'  was  singing  to  him- 
self this  tune: 

Chorus 
"Get  out  of  the  way,  you're  all  unlucky;  clear   the   track 
for  Ole  Kentucky! 

"Now  in  a  sad  predicament  the  Lokies  are  for  President; 
They  have  six  horses  in  the  pasture,  and  don't  know  which 
can  run  the  faster. 

"The  Wagon-Horse  from  Pennsylvany,  the  Dutchmen  think 
he's  the  best  of  any; 
But  he  must  drag  in  heavy  stages  his  Federal  notions  and 
low  wages. 

"They  proudly  bring  upon  the  course  an  old  and  broken- 
down  war-horse; 
They  shout  and  sing:  'Oh!  rumpsey  dumsey,  Colonel  John- 
son killed  Tecumsey!' 

136 


A    WHIG    RALLY 

"And  here  is  Cass,  though  not  a  dunce,  will  run  both  sides 
of  the  track  at  once; 
To  win  the  race  will  all  things  copy,  be  sometimes  pig  and 
sometimes  puppy. 

"The  fiery  Southern  horse,  Calhoun,  who  hates  a  Fox  and 
fears  a  Coon, 
To  toe  the  scratch  will  not  be  able,  for  Matty  keeps  him  in 
the  stable. 

"And  here  is  Matty,  never  idle,  a  tricky  horse  that  slips  his 
bridle; 
In  forty-four  we'll  show  him  soon  the  little  Fox  can't  fool 
the  Coon. 

"The  balky  horse  they  call  John  Tyler,  we'll  head  him  soon 
or  burst  his  boiler; 
His  cursed  'grippe'  has  seized  us  all,  which  Doctor  Clay 
will  cure  next  fall. 

"The  people's  fav'rite,  Henry  Clay,  is  now   the  'fashion'  of 
the  day; 
And  let  the  track  be  dry  or  mucky,  we'll  stake  our  pile  on 
Ole  Kentucky. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  he's  swift  and  lucky;  clear  the  track 
for  Ole  Kentucky!" 

(The  chorus  of  each  preceding  verse  is,  "Get  out  of  the 
way,  you're  all  unlucky,"  etc.  The  "Fox"  is  Martin  Van 
Buren,  or  "Matty."  The  "Coon"  is  Clay.  The  "Wagon- 
Horse  from  Pennsylvany"  is  James  Buchanan.) 

Another  ballad,  sung  that  day  under  the  trees  at  the 
back  of  the  Court  House,  began  after  this  wise : 

"What  has  caused  this  great  commotion 
Our  ranks  betray? 
It  is  the  ball  a-rolling  on 
To  clear  the  way 
For  Harry  Clay. 
137 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

And  with  him  we'll  beat  your  Polk!  Polk!  Polk! 

And  his  motley  crew  of  folk. 

O!  with  him  we'll  beat  your  Polk." 

To  my  excited  imagination  it  was  simple  fact,  not  a 
flight  of  fancy,  that  Powhatan  should  be  alluded  to  that 
day  as  "your  historic  county — a  mere  wave  in  the  vast 
Union — 

"That  ever  shall  be 
Divided  as  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea/' 

"A  wave,  fellow-citizens,  that  has  caught  the  irresistible 
impulse  of  wind  and  tide  bearing  us  on  to  the  most  glori- 
ous victory  America  has  ever  seen." 

Ah's  me!  That  was  how  both  parties  talked  and  felt 
with  regard  to  the  Union  seventeen  years  before  the  very 
name  became  odious  to  those  who  had  been  ready  to  die 
in  defence  of  it. 

I  cannot  dismiss  the  subject  of  public  functions  in  the 
"historic  county"  without  devoting  a  few  pages  to  the 
annual  Muster  Day.  It  was  preceded  by  five  days  of 
"officers'  training."  The  manoeuvres  of  the  latter  body 
were  carried  on  in  the  public  square,  and,  as  one  end  of  our 
house  overlooked  this,  no  lessons  were  studied  or  recited 
between  the  hours  of  10  a.m.  and  4  p.m.  on  those 
days.  The  sophisticated  twentieth-century  youngling  will 
smile  contemptuously  at  hearing  that,  up  to  this  time,  I 
had  never  heard  a  brass-band.  But  I  knew  all  about 
martial  music.  Already  there  was  laid  away  in  the  fat 
portfolio  nobody  except  myself  ever  opened,  a  story  in 
ten  parts,  in  which  the  hero's  voice  was  compared  to  "the 
thrilling  strains  of  martial  music." 

I  boiled  the  tale  down  four  years  thereafter,  and  it  was 
printed.     It  had  a  career.     But  "that  is  another  story." 

I  used  to  sit  with  my  "white  work,"  or  a  bit  of  knitting, 

13S 


MUSTER    DAY 

in  hand,  at  that  end  window,  looking  across  the  side-street 
down  upon  the  square,  watching  the  backing  and  filling, 
the  prancing  and  the  halting  of  the  eight  "officers"  drilled 
in  military  tactics  by  Colonel  Hopkins,  the  strains  of  the 
drum  and  fife  in  my  ears,  and  dream  out  war-stories  by  the 
dozen. 

The  thumping  and  the  squealing  of  drum  and  fife  set  my 
pulses  to  dancing  as  the  finest  orchestra  has  never  made 
them  leap  since  that  day  when  fancy  was  more  real  and 
earnest  than  what  the  bodily  senses  took  in. 

By  Saturday  the  officers  had  learned  their  lesson  well 
enough  to  take  their  respective  stands  before  (and  aft,  as 
we  shall  see)  the  larger  body  of  free  and  independent  Ameri- 
can citizens  who  were  not  "muster  free,"  hence  who  must 
study  the  noble  art  of  war. 

They  came  from  every  quarter  of  the  county.  The  Fine 
Creek  and  Genito  neighborhoods  gave  up  their  quota, 
and  Deep  Creek,  Red  Lane,  and  Yellow  Jacket  country 
kept  not  back.  It  was  a  motley  and  most  democratic  line 
that  stretched  from  the  main  street  to  that  flanking  the 
public  square.  Butternut  and  broadcloth  rubbed  elbows; 
planter  and  overseer  were  shoulder  to  shoulder.  "Free, 
white,  and  twenty-one"  had  the  additional  qualification 
of  "under  forty-five."  Past  that,  the  citizen  of  these  free 
and  enlightened  United  States  lays  down  the  burden  of 
peaceable  military  muster. 

Besides  those  worn  by  the  officers,  there  was  not  a  uni- 
form on  duty  that  Saturday.  Here  and  there  one  might 
descry  the  glitter  of  a  gun-barrel.  Walking-canes  and, 
with  the  Yellow  Jacket  contingent,  corn-stalks,  simulated 
muskets  in  the  exercises  dictated  by  Colonel  Hopkins,  who 
was  to-day  at  his  best.  I  employ  the  word  "dictated" 
with  intention.  He  had  to  tell  the  recruits  (surely  the 
rawest  ever  drawn  up  in  line)  exactly  what  each  order 
meant.     To  prevent  the  swaying  array  from  leaning  back 

139 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

against  the  fence,  three  officers  were  detailed  to  skirmish 
behind  the  long  row  and  shove  delinquents  into  place. 
The  Colonel  instructed  them  how  to  hold  their  "arms," 
patiently ;  in  the  simplest  colloquial  phrase,  informed  them 
what  each  was  to  do  when  ordered  to  "shoulder  arms/' 
"right  dress,"  "mark  time,"  and  the  rest  of  the  techni- 
calities confusing  to  ears  unlearned,  and  which,  heard  by 
the  veteran  but  once  in  a  twelve-month,  could  not  be 
familiar  even  after  ten  or  fifteen  years  of  "service." 

Both  the  windows  commanding  the  parade-ground  were 
filled  on  Muster  Day.  My  mother  and  our  grown-up 
cousins  enjoyed  the  humors  of  the  situation  almost  as 
much  as  we  girls,  who  let  nothing  escape  our  eager  eyes. 
Especially  do  I  recall  the  shout  of  laughter  we  drew  away 
from  our  outlook  to  stifle,  when  the  suave  commanding 
officer,  mindful  of  the  dull  comprehension  and  crass  igno- 
rance of  a  large  proportion  of  his  corps,  directed  them  in  a 
clear  voice — whose  courteous  intonations  never  varied  under 
provocations  that  would  have  thrown  some  men  into 
paroxysms  of  mirth,  and  moved  many  to  profanity — to 
"look  straight  forward,  hold  the  chin  level,  and  let  the 
hands  hang  down,  keeping  thumbs  upon  the  seam  of 
the  pantaloons."  More  technical  terms  would  have  been 
thrown  away.  Twenty  warriors  (prospective)  brought  both 
hands  forward  and  laid  their  thumbs,  side  by  side,  upon 
the  central  seams  of  their  pantaloons!  Merriment,  that 
threatened  to  be  like  the  "inextinguishable  laughter" 
of  Olympian  deities,  followed  the  grave  anxieties  of  the 
officials  in  rear  and  front  of  the  mixed  multitude  to  hinder 
those  at  the  extreme  ends  of  the  line  from  bending  for- 
ward to  watch  the  manoeuvres  of  comrades  who  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  field.  In  spite  of  hurryings  to  and  fro 
and  up  and  down  the  ranks,  it  chanced,  half  a  dozen  times 
an  hour,  that  what  should  have  been  a  straight  line  became 
a  curve.     Then  the  gallant,   indomitable  Colonel   would 

140 


MUSTER    DAY 

walk  majestically  from  end  to  end,  and  with  the  flat  of 
his  naked  sword  repair  the  damage  done  to  discipline — 

"Just  like  a  boy  rattling  a  stick  along  the  palings!" 
gasped  Cousin  Mary,  choking  with  mirth. 

The  simile  was  apt. 

Some  staid  citizens,  tenacious  of  dignity  and  susceptible 
to  ridicule,  seldom  appeared  upon  the  parade-ground,  pre- 
ferring to  pay  the  fine  exacted  for  the  omission.  Others — 
and  not  a  few — contended  that  some  familiarity  with  mili- 
tary manoeuvres  was  essential  to  the  mental  outfit  of  every 
man  who  would  be  willing  to  serve  his  country  in  the  field 
if  necessary.  This  sentiment  moved  sundry  of  the  younger 
men  to  the  formation,  that  same  year  (if  I  mistake  not),  of 
the  "Powhatan  Troop." 

One  incident  connected  with  the  birth  of  an  organiza- 
tion that  still  exists,  in  name,  fixed  it  in  my  mind.  Cousin 
Joe  —  the  hero  of  my  childish  days  —  was  mainly  instru- 
mental in  getting  up  the  company,  and  brought  the  written 
form  of  constitution  and  by-laws  to  my  father's  house, 
where  he  dined  on  the  Court  Day  which  marked  the  first 
parade.  Our  kinsman,  Moses  Drury  Hoge,  came  with  him. 
He  prided  himself,  among  a  great  many  other  things,  upon 
being  phenomenally  far-sighted.  To  test  this  he  asked 
Cousin  Joe  to  hold  the  paper  against  the  wall  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  room,  and  read  it  aloud  slowly  and  cor- 
rectly from  his  seat,  twenty  feet  away. 

The  scene  came  back  to  me  as  it  was  photographed  on 
my  mind  that  day,  when  I  read,  ten  years  ago,  in  a  Rich- 
mond paper,  of  the  prospective  celebration  of  the  forma- 
tion of  the  "Powhatan  Troop."  I  was  more  than  four  hun- 
dred miles  away,  and  fifty-odd  years  separated  me  from  the 
"historic  county"  and  the  Court  House  where  the  banquet 
was  to  be  given.  I  let  the  paper  drop  and  closed  my  eyes. 
I  was  back  in  the  big,  square  room  on  the  first  floor  of 
the  long,  low,  rambling  house  on  the  village  street.    My 

141 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

favorite  cousin,  tall  and  handsome,  held  the  paper  above 
his  head,  smiling  in  indulgent  amusement  at  the  young 
kinsman  of  whom  he  was  ever  fond  and  proud.  My  father 
stood  in  the  doorway,  watching  the  progress  of  the  test. 
My  mother  had  let  her  sewing  fall  to  her  lap  while  she 
looked  on.  The  scent  of  roses  from  the  garden  that  was 
the  joy  of  my  mother's  heart,  stole  in  through  open  doors 
and  windows.  The  well  -  modulated  tones,  that  were  to 
ring  musically  in  church  and  hall  on  both  sides  of  the 
sea,  and  for  more  than  a  half-century  to  come,  read  the 
formal  agreement, of  which  I  recalled,  in  part, the  preamble: 

" 'We,  the  undersigned,  citizens  of  the  County  of  Powhatan, 
in  the  State  of  Virginia." 

While  the  glamour  of  that  moment  of  ecstatic  reminis- 
cence wrought  within  me,  I  seized  my  pen  and  wrote  a 
telegram  of  congratulation  to  the  revellers,  seated,  as  I 
reckoned,  at  that  very  hour,  about  the  banqueting-board. 
I  addressed  the  despatch  to  Judge  Thomas  Miller,  the  grand- 
son of  the  chairman  on  the  day  of  the  Whig  rally.  By  a 
remarkable  and  happy  coincidence,  for  which  I  had  hard- 
ly dared  to  hope,  the  telegram,  sent  from  a  country  station 
in  New  Jersey,  flew  straight  and  fast  to  the  obscure  hamlet 
nearly  five  hundred  miles  off,  and  was  handed  to  Judge 
Miller  at  the  head  of  the  table  while  the  feast  was  in  full 
flow.  He  read  it  aloud,  and  the  health  of  the  writer  was 
drunk  amid  such  applause  as  my  wildest  fancy  could  not 
have  foreseen  in  the  All-So-Long-Ago  when  my  horizon, 
all  rose-color  and  gold,  was  bounded  by  the  confines  of 
"Our  County." 


XIV 


RUMORS  OF  CHANGES — A  CORN-SHUCKING — NEGRO  TOPICAL 

SONG 

My  mother's  love  for  Richmond  was  but  second  to  that 
she  felt  for  husband  and  children.  It  was  evident  to  us  in 
after-years  that  her  longing  to  return  to  her  early  home 
wrought  steadily,  if  silently,  upon  my  father's  mind  and 
shaped  his  plans. 

These  plans  were  definitively  made  and  announced  to  us 
by  the  early  autumn  of  1844.  Uncle  Carus  had  removed 
to  the  city  with  his  family  late  in  the  summer.  My  sister 
and  I  were  to  be  sent  to  a  new  school  just  established  in 
Richmond,  and  recommended  to  our  parents  by  Moses 
Hoge,  who  was  now  assistant  pastor  in  the  First  Presby- 
terian Church,  and  had  full  charge  of  a  branch  of  the  same, 
built  farther  up-town  than  the  Old  First  founded  by  Dr. 
John  H.  Rice.  We  girls  were  to  live  with  the  Caruses  that 
winter.  In  the  spring  the  rest  of  the  family  would  follow, 
and,  thenceforward,  our  home  would  be  in  Richmond. 

A  momentous  change,  and  one  that  was  to  alter  the 
complexion  of  all  our  lives.  Yet  it  was  so  gradually  and 
quietly  effected  that  we  were  not  conscious  of  so  much  as 
a  jar  in  the  machinery  of  our  existence. 

I  heard  my  mother  say,  and  more  than  once,  in  after- 
years,  crowded  with  incident  and  with  cares  of  which  we 
never  dreamed  in  those  eventless  months: 

"I  was  never  quite  contented  to  live  anywhere  out  of 
Richmond,  yet  I  often  asked  myself  during  the  seven  years 

143 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

we  spent  in  Powhatan  if  they  were  not  the  most  care- 
free I  should  ever  have.     I  know,  now,  that  they  were." 

My  father  gave  a  fervent  assent  when  he  heard  this. 
To  him  the  sojourn  was  prosperous  throughout.  Energy, 
integrity,  public  spirit,  intelligence,  and,  under  the  ex- 
terior chance  acquaintances  thought  stern,  the  truest 
heart  that  ever  throbbed  with  love  to  God  and  love  to 
man,  had  won  for  him  the  esteem  and  friendship  of  the 
best  men  in  the  county.  Steadily  he  mounted,  by  the  force 
of  native  worth,  to  the  magistrate's  bench,  and  was  a  recog- 
nized factor  in  local  and  in  state  politics.  He  had  estab- 
lished a  flourishing  Sunday-school  in  the  "Fine  Creek 
neighborhood,"  where  none  had  ever  existed  until  he  made 
this  the  nucleus  of  a  church.  He  was  the  confidential  ad- 
viser of  the  embarrassed  planter  and  the  struggling  me- 
chanic, and  lent  a  helping  hand  to  both.  He  was  President 
of  a  debating  society,  in  which  he  was,  I  think,  the  only 
man  who  was  not  a  college  graduate. 

His  business  had  succeeded  far  beyond  his  expectations. 
Except  that  the  increase  of  means  moved  him  to  larger 
charities,  there  was  no  change  in  our  manner  of  life.  We 
had  always  been  above  the  pinch  of  penury,  living  as  well 
as  our  neighbors,  and,  so  far  as  the  younger  members  of 
the  family  knew,  as  well  as  any  reasonable  people  need 
desire  to  live.  We  had  our  carriage  and  horses,  my  sister 
and  I  a  riding-horse  apiece,  abundance  of  delicacies  for 
the  table,  and  new  clothes  of  excellent  quality  whenever 
we  wanted  them. 

The  ambitions  and  glories  of  the  world  beyond  our 
limited  sphere  came  to  our  ken  as  matter  of  entertain- 
ment, not  as  provocatives  to  discontent. 

Two  nights  before  we  left  home  for  our  city  school,  the 
Harvest  Home — "  corn-shucking  " — was  held.  It  was  al- 
ways great  fun  to  us  younglings  to  witness  the  "show." 
With  no  premonition  that  I  should  never  assist  at  another 

144 


A    CORN-SHUCKING 

similar  function,  I  went  into  the  kitchen  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and,  as  had  been  my  office  ever  since  I  was  eight 
years  old,  superintended  the  setting  of  the  supper-table  for 
our  servants  and  their  expected  guests.  I  was  Mammy 
Ritta's  special  pet,  and  she  put  in  a  petition  that  I  would 
stand  by  her  now,  in  terms  I  could  not  have  resisted  if  I 
had  been  as  averse  to  the  task  as  I  was  glad  to  perform  it: 

"Is  you  goin'  to  be  sech  a  town  young  lady  that  you 
won't  jes'  step  out  and  show  us  how  to  set  de  table,  honey?" 
could  have  but  one  answer. 

A  boiled  ham  had  the  place  of  honor  at  one  end  of  the 
board,  built  out  with  loose  planks  to  stretch  from  the 
yawning  fireplace,  bounding  the  lower  end  of  the  big  kitchen, 
to  Mammy's  room  at  the  other.  My  mother  had  lent  table- 
cloth and  crockery  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  company. 
She  had,  of  course,  furnished  the  provisions  loading  the 
planks.  A  shoulder  balanced  the  ham,  and  side-dishes  of 
sausage,  chine,  spareribs,  fried  chicken,  huge  piles  of  corn 
and  wheat  bread,  mince  and  potato  pies,  and  several 
varieties  of  preserves,  would  fill  every  spare  foot  of  cloth 
when  the  hot  things  were  in  place.  Floral  decorations  of 
feasts  would  not  come  into  vogue  for  another  decade  and 
more,  but  I  threw  the  sable  corps  of  workers  into  ecstasies 
of  delighted  wonder  by  instructing  Spotswood,  Gilbert, 
and  a  stableman  to  tack  branches  of  pine  and  cedar  along 
the  smoke-browned  rafters  and  stack  them  in  the  cor- 
ners. 

"Mos'  as  nice  as  bein'  in  de  woods!"  ejaculated  the 
laundress,  with  an  audible  and  long-drawn  sniff,  parodying, 
in  unconscious  anticipation,  Young  John  Chi  very 's— "I  feel 
as  if  I  was  in  groves!" 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  the  ostensible  business  of  the 
evening  began.  Boards,  covered  with  straw,  were  the  base 
of  the  mighty  pyramid  of  corn  in  the  open  space  between 
the   kitchen-yard   and  the  stables.     Straw   was  strewed 

145 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

about  the  heap  to  a  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  and 
here  the  men  of  the  party  assembled,  sitting  flat  on  the 
padded  earth.  The  evening  was  bland  and  the  moon  was 
at  the  full.  About  the  doors  of  kitchen  and  laundry  flut- 
tered the  dusky  belles  who  had  accompanied  the  shuckers, 
and  who  would  sit  down  to  supper  with  them.  Their 
presence  was  the  inspiration  of  certain  "topical  songs,"  as 
we  would  name  them — sometimes  saucy,  oftener  flattering. 
As  dear  Doctor  Primrose  hath  it,  "There  was  not  much 
wit,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter,  and  that  did 
nearly  as  well." 

This  was  what  Mea  and  I  whispered  to  each  other  in  our 
outlook  at  the  window  of  our  room  that  gave  directly 
upon  the  lively  scene.  We  had  sat  in  the  same  place  for 
seven  successive  corn-shuckings,  as  we  reminded  ourselves, 
sighing  reminiscently. 

The  top  of  the  heap  of  corn  was  taken  by  the  biggest 
man  present  and  the  best  singer.  From  his  eminence  he 
tossed  down  the  hooded  ears  to  the  waiting  hands  that 
caught  them  as  they  hurtled  through  the  air,  and  stripped 
them  in  a  twinkling.  As  he  tossed,  he  sang,  the  others 
catching  up  the  chorus  with  a  will.  Hands  and  voices  kept 
perfect  time. 

One  famous  corn-shuckers'  song  was  encored  vocifer- 
ously.    It  ran,  in  part,  thus: 

"My  cow  Maria 
She  fell  in  de  fire. 

Chorus 
"Go  de  corn!    Go  de  corn! 

"I  tell  my  man  Dick 
To  pull  ;er  out  quick. 
(Go  de  corn!) 
146 


NEGRO    TOPICAL    SONG 

"And  Dick  he  said, 
'Dis  cow  done  dade!' 
(Go  de  corn!)" 

(Being  of  an  economic  turn  of  mind,  the  owner  of  de- 
ceased Maria  proceeded  to  make  disposition  of  her  several 
members :) 

"I  made  her  hide  over 
For  a  wagon-cover. 
(Go  de  corn!) 

"I  cut  her  hoof  up 
For  a  drinkin'  cup. 
(Go  de  corn!) 

"Her  tail  I  strip' 
Fur  a  wagon- whip. 
(Go  de  corn!) 

"Her  ribs  hoi'  op 
Dat  wagon  top. 

(Go  de  corn!)" 

And  so  on  until,  as  Mea  murmured,  under  cover  of  the 
uproarious  "Go  de  corn!"  repeated  over  and  over  and 
over,  with  growing  might  of  lung — "Maria  was  worth  twice 
as  much  dead  as  alive." 

We  had  had  our  first  nap  when  the  chatter  of  the  supper- 
party,  saying  their  farewells  to  hosts  and  companions, 
awoke  us.  We  tumbled  out  of  bed  and  flew  to  the  win- 
dow. The  moon  was  as  bright  as  day,  the  dark  figures 
bustling  between  us  and  the  heaps  of  shucks  and  the 
mounds  of  corn,  gleaming  like  gold  in  the  moonlight,  re- 
minded us  of  nimble  ants  scampering  about  their  hills. 
The  supper  had  evidently  been  eminently  satisfactory.  We 
could  smell  hot  coffee  and  sausage  still.  Fine  phrases,  im- 
11  147 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

possible  to  any  but  a  negro's  brain  and  tongue,  flew  fast 
and  gayly.  The  girls  giggled  and  gurgled  in  palpable  imi- 
tation of  damsels  of  fairer  skins  and  higher  degree. 

Hampton — the  spruce  carriage-driver  (as  coachmen  were 
named  then)  of  Mr.  Spencer  D.,  Effie's  father  —  bowed 
himself  almost  double  right  under  our  window  in  worship- 
ful obeisance  to  a  bright  mulatto  in  a  blazing  red  frock. 

"Is  all  de  ladies  ockerpied  wicl  gentlemen?"  he  called, 
perfunctorily,  over  his  shoulder.  And,  ingratiatingly  di- 
rect to  the  coy  belle  who  pretended  not  to  see  his  approach, 
"Miss  Archer!   is  you  ockerpied?" 

Miss  Archer  tittered  and  writhed  coquettishly. 

"Well,  Mr.  D.!    I  can't  jes'  say  that  I  is!" 

"Then,  jes'  hook  on  hyar,  won't  you?"  crooking  a  per- 
suasive elbow. 


XV 


the  country  girls  at  a  city  school — velvet  hats  and 
clay's  defeat 

Our  father  took  us  to  Richmond  the  first  of  October. 
A  stage  ran  between  Cumberland  Court  House  and 
the  city,  going  down  one  day  and  coming  up  the  next, 
taking  in  Powhatan  wayside  stations  and  one  or  more  in 
Chesterfield. 

We  rarely  used  the  public  conveyance.  This  important 
journey  was  made  in  our  own  carriage.  A  rack  at  the 
back  contained  two  trunks.  Other  luggage  had  gone  down 
by  the  stage.  We  had  dinner  at  a  half-way  house  of  enter- 
tainment, leaving  home  at  9  o'clock  a.m.,  and  coming  in 
sight  of  the  town  at  five  in  the  afternoon. 

That  night  I  was  lulled  to  sleep  for  the  first  time  by 
what  was  to  be  forevermore  associated  in  my  thoughts 
with  the  fair  City  of  Seven  Hills — -the  song  of  the  river- 
rapids.  It  is  a  song — never  a  moan.  Men  have  come  and 
men  may  go;  the  pleasant  places  endeared  by  history, 
tradition,  and  memory  may  be,  and  have  been,  laid  waste; 
the  holy  and  beautiful  houses  in  which  our  fathers  wor- 
shipped have  been  burned  with  fire,  the  bridges  spanning 
the  rolling  river  have  been  broken  down,  and  others  have 
arisen  in  their  place;  but  one  thing  has  remained  as  un- 
changed as  the  heavens  reflected  in  the  broad  breast  of 
the  stream — that  is  the  sweet  and  solemn  anthem,  dear 
to  the  heart  of  one  who  has  lived  long  within  the  sound  of 
it,  as  the  song  of  the  surf  to  the  homesick  exile  who  asked 
in  the  Vale  of  Tempe,  " Where  is  the  sea!" 

149 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

We  were  duly  entered  in  the  school  conducted  by  Mrs. 
Nottingham  and  her  four  daughters  in  an  irregularly  built 
frame-house — painted  "colonial  yellow" — which  stood  at 
the  corner  of  Fifth  and  Franklin  Streets.  It  was  pulled 
down  long  ago  to  make  room  for  a  stately  brick  residence, 
built  and  occupied  by  my  brother  Horace. 

The  school  was  Presbyterian,  through  and  through.  Mr. 
Hoge  had  a  Bible-class  there  every  Monday  morning;  the 
Nottingham  family,  including  boarders,  attended  Sunday 
and  week-day  services  in  the  chapel,  a  block  farther  down 
Fifth  Street.  The  eloquent  curate  of  the  Old  First  was 
rising  fast  into  prominence  in  city  and  church.  His  chapel 
was  crowded  to  the  doors  on  Sunday  afternoons  when 
there  was  no  service  in  the  mother-church,  and  filled  in  the 
forenoon  with  the  colony  which,  it  was  settled,  should 
form  itself  into  a  corporate  and  independent  body  within 
a  few  months. 

It  spoke  well  for  the  drill  we  had  had  from  our  late 
tutor,  and  said  something  for  the  obedient  spirit  in  which 
we  had  followed  the  line  of  study  indicated  by  him,  that 
Mea  and  I  were,  after  the  preliminary  examination,  classed 
with  girls  older  than  ourselves,  and  who  had  been  regular 
attendants  upon  boarding  and  day  schools  of  note.  If  we 
were  surprised  at  this,  having  anticipated  a  different  re- 
sult from  the  comparison  of  a  desultory  home-education  in 
the  country,  with  the  "finish"  of  city  methods,  we  were  the 
more  amazed  at  the  manners  of  our  present  associates. 
They  were,  without  exception,  the  offspring  of  refined  and 
well-to-do  parents.  The  daughters  of  distinguished  clergy- 
men, of  eminent  jurists,  of  governors  and  congressmen,  of 
wealthy  merchants  and  rich  James  River  planters,  were 
our  classmates  in  school  sessions  and  our  companions 
when  lessons  were  over.  It  was  our  initial  experience  in 
the  arrogant  democracy  of  the  "Institution." 

Be  it  day-school,  boarding-school,  or  college,  the  story 

150 


COUNTRY    GIRLS    AT    A    CITY    SCHOOL 

of  this  experience  is  the  same  the  world  over.  The  frank 
brutality  of  question  and  comment;  the  violent  and  reason- 
less partisanships;  the  irrational  intimacies,  and  the  short 
lives  of  these;  the  combinations  against  lawful  authority; 
the  deceptions  and  evasions  to  screen  offenders  from  the 
consequences  of  indolence  or  disobedience — were  but  a  few 
of  the  revelations  made  to  the  two  country  girls  in  the 
trial-months  of  that  winter. 

I  had  my  first  shock  in  the  course  of  an  examination 
upon  ancient  history  conducted  by  the  second  and  gen- 
tlest of  the  Nottingham  sisters — Miss  Sarah.  I  was  un- 
affectedly diffident  in  the  presence  of  girls  who  were  so 
much  more  fashionably  attired  than  we  in  our  brown 
merino  frocks  made  by  "Miss  Judy,"  and  trimmed  with 
velvet  of  a  darker  shade,  that  I  felt  more  ill  at  ease  than 
my  innate  pride  would  let  me  show.  But  I  kept  my  eyes 
upon  the  kind  face  of  the  catechist,  and  answered  in  my 
turn  distinctly,  if  low,  trying  with  all  my  might  to  think 
of  nothing  but  the  subject  in  hand.  I  observed  that  Mea 
did  the  same.  I  was  always  sure  of  her  scholarship,  and 
I  tingled  with  pride  at  her  composure  and  the  refined  in- 
tonations that  rendered  replies  invariably  correct.  Hon- 
estly, I  had  thought  far  more  of  her  than  of  myself,  when, 
after  a  question  from  Miss  Sarah  revealed  the  fact  that 
I  had  read  Plutarch's  Lives,  a  tall  girl  next  to  me  dug  her 
elbow  into  my  ribs: 

"Law,  child!  you  think  yourself  so  smart!" 

She  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  eminent  professional 
men  I  have  alluded  to,  and  three  years  my  senior.  I  knew 
her  father  by  reputation,  and  had  been  immensely  im- 
pressed with  a  sense  of  the  honor  of  being  seated  beside 
her  in  the  class. 

"Miss  Blank!"  said  Miss  Sarah,  as  stern  as  she  could 
ever  be.     "  I  am  surprised !" 

The  girl  giggled.    So  did  a  dozen  others.    My  cheeks 

151 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

flamed  hotly,  and  my  temper  followed  suit.  I  made  up 
my  mind,  then  and  there,  never  to  like  that  "creature." 
I  have  seen  the  like  misbehavior  in  college  girls  who 
took  the  highest  honors. 

Prof.  Brander  Matthews,  of  Columbia  University,  once 
said  to  a  class  in  English  literature,  of  which  my  son 
was  a  member: 

"I  could  go  through  all  of  my  classes  and  pick  out,  with 
unerring  certainty,  the  young  men  who  belong  to  what  may 
be  called  'reading  families.'  Nothing  in  the  college,  cur- 
riculum ever  takes  the  place  in  education  of  a  refined  early 
environment  and  intellectual  atmosphere." 

I  am  inclined  to  adapt  the  wise  utterance  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  what  we  class,  awkwardly,  under  the  head  of  ''man- 
ners." The  child,  who  is  taught,  by  precept  and  hourly 
example  in  home-life,  that  politeness  is  a  religious  duty, 
and  sharp  speech  vulgar,  and  who  is  trained  to  practise 
with  the  members  of  his  family  the  "small,  sweet  courte- 
sies of  life"  that  make  the  society  man  and  woman  ele- 
gant and  popular,  will  suffer  many  things  at  the  tongues 
of  school  and  college  mates,  yet  will  not  his  "manners" 
depart  from  him — when  he  is  older! 

As  home-bred  girls,  we  had  to  undergo  a  system  of  moral 
and  mental  acclimation  during  that  session.  I  do  not 
regret  the  ordeal.  Quiet,  confidential  talks  with  Cousin 
Mary,  whose  tact  was  as  fine  as  her  breeding,  helped  me  to 
sustain  philosophically  what  would  have  made  me  miser- 
able but  for  her  tender  and  judicious  ministrations. 

"It  is  always  right  to  do  the  right  thing,"  was  a  maxim 
she  wrought  into  my  consciousness  by  many  repetitions. 
"The  danger  of  association  with  rude  and  coarse  people 
is  that  we  may  fall  into  their  ways  to  protect  ourselves. 
It  may  be  good  for  you  to  rough  it  for  a  while,  so  long  as 
it  does  not  roughm  you." 

Little  by  little  we  got  used  to  the  "roughing."     School- 

152 


COUNTRY    GIRLS    AT    A    CITY    SCHOOL 

work  we  thoroughly  enjoyed,  and  our  teachers  appreciated 
this.  From  each  of  them  we  met  with  kind  and  helpful 
treatment  as  soon  as  the  routine  of  study  was  fully  es- 
tablished. 

Our  French  master  supplied  the  crucial  test  of  philosophy 
and  diligence.  He  was  a  "character"  in  his  way,  and  he 
fostered  the  reputation.  In  all  my  days  I  have  never 
known  a  man  who  could,  at  pleasure,  be  such  a  savage  and 
so  fine  a  gentleman.  He  was  six-feet-something  in  height, 
superbly  proportioned  and  heavily  mustachioed.  Few 
men  curtained  the  upper  lip  then.  He  had  received  a 
university  education  in  France;  had  been  a  rich  man  in 
New  York,  marrying  there  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Ogden, 
a  well-known  citizen,  the  father  of  Anna  Cora  Mowatt, 
the  actress,  who  afterward  became  Mrs.  Ritchie. 

Isidore  Guillet  lost  wife  and  fortune  in  the  same  year, 
and,  after  a  vain  effort  to  recoup  his  finances  at  the  North, 
removed  to  Richmond  with  his  three  sons,  and  became  a 
fashionable  French  teacher.  He  was  fierce  in  class,  and 
suave  outside  of  the  recitation-room.  Our  late  and  now- 
more-than-ever-lamented  tutor  had  laid  a  fair  foundation 
for  us  in  the  French  language.  We  were  "up"  in  the 
verbs  to  an  extent  that  excited  the  rude  applause  of  our 
classmates.  We  read  French  as  fluently  as  English,  and 
were  tolerably  conversant  with  such  French  classics  as 
were  current  in  young  ladies'  seminaries.  These  things 
were  less  than  vanity  when  M.  Guillet  and  Manesca  took 
the  field.  We  were  required  to  copy  daily  seven  or  eight 
foolscap  pages-full  of  that  detestable  "System."  Begin- 
ning with  "  Avez  vous  le  clou?"  and  running  the  gamut 
'of  "le  bon  clou"  "le  mauvais  clou,"  and  "le  bon  clou  de 
voire  pere"  "le  mauvais  clou  de  voire  grandmere,"  up  to 
the  maddening  discords  of  "Vinterrogatif  et  le  negatif" — 
we  were  rushed  breathlessly  along  the  lines  ordained  by 
the  merciless  "System"  and  more  merciless  master,  until 

153 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

it  was  a  marvel  that  nerves  and  health  were  not  wrecked. 
I  said  just  now  that  the  lion  roared  him  soft  in  general 
society.  Throughout  a  series  of  Spanish  lessons  given  to 
us  two  girls  through  the  medium  of  French,  he  was  the 
mildest-mannered  monster  I  ever  beheld.  One  day  he 
went  out  of  his  way  to  account  for  the  unlikeness  to  the 
language-master  of  the  class.  The  explanation  was  a  re- 
fined version  of  Mr.  Bagnet's  code — "Discipline  must  be 
maintained."  To  the  pair  of  girls  who  read  and  recited 
to  him  in  their  private  sitting-room,  he  was  the  finished 
gentleman  in  demeanor,  and  in  talk  delightfully  instructive. 
His  family  in  Paris  had  known  the  present  generation  of 
Lafayettes.  Lamartine — at  that  epoch  of  French  Revolu- 
tionary history,  the  popular  idol — was  his  personal  friend. 
He  brought  and  read  to  us  letters  from  the  author-states- 
man, thrilling  with  interest,  and  kept  us  advised,  through 
his  family  correspondence,  of  the  stirring  changes  going 
on  in  his  native  land.  All  this  was  in  the  uncovenanted 
conversational  exercise  that  succeeded  the  Spanish  lesson. 
The  latter  over,  he  would  toss  aside  the  books  used  in  it 
with  an  airy  "Eh,  Men  done!  pour  la  conversation!"  and 
plunge  into  the  matter  uppermost  in  his  mind,  chatting 
brilliantly  and  gayly  in  the  most  elegant  French  imagin- 
able, bringing  into  our  commonplace,  provincial  lives  the 
flavor  and  sparkle  of  the  Parisian  salon. 

To  return  to  our  first  winter  in  a  city  school :  The  session 
began  on  October  5th.  We  had  ceased  to  be  homesick, 
and  were  learning  to  sustain,  with  seeming  good-humor,  crit- 
icisms of  our  "countrified  ways  and  old-fashioned  talk," 
when  our  mother  came  to  town  for  her  fall  shopping.  She 
arrived  on  the  first  of  November,  my  father  tarrying  behind 
to  vote  on  the  fourth.  We  had  a  glorious  Saturday.  It 
was  our  very  first  real  shopping  expedition,  and  it  has  had 
no  equal  in  our  subsequent  experiences.  There  was  a 
lecture  on  Saturday  morning.     Mr.  Richard  Sterling,  the 

154 


VELVET  HATS  AND  CLAY'S  DEFEAT 

brother-in-law  of  our  late  tutor,  and  the  head-master  of  a 
classical  school  for  boys,  lectured  to  us  weekly  upon  Natural 
Philosophy.  We  were  out  by  eleven  o'clock,  and  on 
emerging  from  the  house,  we  found  our  mother  awaiting 
us  without. 

The  day  was  divine,  and  we  had  worn  our  best  walking- 
dresses,  in  anticipation  of  the  shopping  frolic.  Three  of 
the  girls  had  commented  upon  our  smart  attire,  one  re- 
marking that  we  "really  looked  like  folks."  The  vocabu- 
lary of  school-girls  usually  harmonizes  with  their  deport- 
ment. The  tall  girl  I  have  spoken  of  as  "Miss  Blank," 
added  to  her  patronizing  notice  of  the  country  girls,  the 
encouraging  assurance  that  "if  we  only  had  bonnets  less 
than  a  century  old,  we  would  be  quite  presentable." 

We  held  our  peace,  hugging  to  our  souls  the  knowledge 
that  we  were  that  day  to  try  on  two  velvet  bonnets  —  real 
velvet — the  like  of  which  had  never  graced  our  heads  before. 
We  could  afford  to  smile  superior  to  contempt  and  to 
patronage — the  lowest  device  of  the  mean  mind,  the 
favorite  tool  of  the  consciously  underbred. 

I  forgot  heat  and  bitterness,  and  misanthropy  died  a 
natural  death  in  the  milliner's  shop.  The  new  hat  was  a 
dream  of  beauty  and  becomingness  in  my  unlearned  eyes. 
It  was  a  soft  plum-color,  and  had  a  tiny  marabou  feather 
on  the  side.  I  had  never  worn  a  feather.  Mea's  was 
dark-blue  and  of  uncut  velvet.  It,  too,  was  adorned  with 
a  white  feather.  I  could  have  touched  the  tender  blue 
heavens  with  one  finger  when  it  was  decided  that  we  might 
wear  the  new  bonnets  home,  and  have  the  old  ones  sent 
up  instead. 

"You  know  I  never  like  to  have  new  clothes  worn  for 
the  first  time  to  church,"  our  mother  remarked,  aside, 
to  us. 

We  walked  up-town,  meeting  my  father  at  the  foot  of 
Capitol  Street.    He  was  in  a  prodigious  hurry,  forging 

155 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

along  at  a  rate  that  made  it  difficult  for  me  to  overtake 
him  when  my  mother  told  me  to  "run  after  him,  and  we 
would  all  go  home  together." 

He  drew  out  his  watch  when  I  told  my  errand  breath- 
lessly. His  eyes  were  bright  with  excitement;  as  he  hur- 
ried back  to  offer  his  arm  to  his  wife,  he  said: 

"I  must  be  on  Broad  Street  when  the  Northern  train 
comes  in.  We  have  just  time  if  you  don't  mind  walking 
briskly." 

Mind  it!  I  could  have  run  every  step  of  the  way  if  that 
would  bring  the  news  to  us  more  quickly.  My  heart  smote 
me  remorsefully.  For  in  the  engrossing  event  of  the  new 
bonnet  I  had  forgotten,  for  the  time,  that  decisive  news  of 
the  election  would  certainly  be  received  by  the  mail-train 
which  ran  into  Richmond  at  two  o'clock.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  period  of  which  I  write  antedated  the 
electric  telegraph.  We  had  but  one  through  mail  daily. 
Election  news  had  been  pouring  in  heavily,  but  slowly.  We 
were  not  quite  sure,  even  yet,  how  our  own  State  had  gone. 
The  returns  from  New  York  and  Pennsylvania  would  es- 
tablish the  fact  of  the  great  Whig  victory  beyond  a  doubt. 
We  said  "the  Clay  victory,"  and  were  confident  that  it 
was  an  accomplished,  established  fact.  True,  my  father 
and  Uncle  Carus  had  spoken  rather  gravely  than  appre- 
hensively last  night  of  the  unprecedentcdly  large  Irish  vote 
that  had  been  polled. 

We  were  at  the  corner  of  Broad  and  Tenth  Streets,  and 
still  at  racing  speed,  when  the  train  drew  slowly  into  the 
station.  The  track  lay  in  the  centre  of  Broad  Street,  and 
the  terminus  was  flush  with  the  sidewalk.  I  was  on  one 
side  of  my  father;  my  mother  had  his  other  arm.  Mea, 
never  a  rapid  walker,  was  some  paces  in  the  rear.  I  felt 
my  father's  step  falter  and  slacken  suddenly.  Looking  into 
his  face,  I  saw  it  darken  and  harden.  The  mobile  mouth 
was  a  straight,  tense  line.     I  thought  that  a  groan  escaped 

156 


VELVET  HATS  AND  CLAY'S  DEFEAT 

him.  Before  I  could  exclaim,  a  man  strode  toward  us 
from  the  train.  He  grasped  my  father's  arm  and  said 
something  in  his  ear.     I  caught  five  words  of  one  sentence: 

"The  Irish  vote  did  it!" 

At  the  same  instant  the  ludicrous  touch,  never  lacking 
from  the  supreme  moments  of  life,  was  supplied  to  this  by 
a  boy  walking  down  the  street,  his  young  face  disfigured 
by  the  wrathful  disappointment  stamped  upon  the  visages 
of  most  of  the  men  thronging  the  sidewalk.  Some  ardent 
Democrat  had  nailed  a  vigorous  poke-stalk  against  the 
fence,  and  the  lad  stopped  to  kick  it  viciously.  Even  my 
father  smiled  at  the  impotent  fury  of  the  action. 

"That's  right,  my  boy!"  he  said,  and  struck  the  weed 
into  the  gutter  with  a  blow  of  his  cane. 

"I  wish  other  evils  were  as  easily  disposed  of!"  was  all 
that  escaped  the  tightly-closed  lips  for  the  next  half-hour. 

The  gloom  rested  upon  face  and  spirits  for  twenty-four 
hours.  Richmond  was  a  Whig  city,  and  the  very  air 
seemed  oppressed  by  what  we  reckoned  as  a  National  woe. 
It  is  not  easy  to  appreciate  in  this  century  that  the  defeat 
of  a  Presidential  candidate  imported  so  much  to  the  best 
men  in  the  country. 

"How  did  you  know  what  had  happened,  father?"  I 
ventured  to  ask  that  night  when  the  silent  meal  was 
over.  We  had  moved  and  spoken  as  if  the  beloved  dead 
lay  under  our  roof.  I  stole  out  to  the  long  back  porch  as 
we  arose  from  table,  and  stood  there,  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ing and  listening  to  the  dirge  chanted  by  the  river.  The 
stars  twinkled  murkily  through  the  city  fogs;  a  sallow 
moon  hung  low  in  the  west.  It  was  a  dolorous  world.  I 
wondered  how  soon  the  United  States  Government  would 
collapse  into  anarchy.  Could — would  my  father  continue 
to  live  here  under  the  rule  of  Polk?  How  I  loathed  the 
name  and  the  party  that  had  made  it  historic !  So  quietly 
had  my  father  approached  that  I  was  made  aware  of  his 

157 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

proximity  by  the  scent  of  his  cigar.  I  was  vaguely  con- 
scious of  a  gleam  of  gratitude  that  he  had  this  slight  solace. 
His  cigar  meant  much  to  him.  I  laid  my  hand  on  that 
resting  on  the  railing.  Such  strong,  capable  hands  as  his 
were!  His  fingers  were  closed  silently  upon  mine,  and  I 
gathered  courage  to  put  my  question.  The  blow  had  fallen 
before  we  met  the  man  who  had  hissed  at  "the  Irish  vote." 

"How  did  you  know  what  had  happened,  father?" 

No  need  to  speak  more  definitely.  Our  minds  had  room 
for  but  one  thought. 

"It  was  arranged  with  the  engineer  and  conductor  that 
a  flag  should  be  made  fast  to  the  locomotive  if  there  were 
good  news.  It  was  to  be  a  large  and  handsome  flag.  Hun- 
dreds were  on  the  lookout  for  it.  As  soon  as  I  caught  sight 
of  the  train  I  saw  that  the  flag  was  not  there." 

He  smoked  hard  and  fast.  A  choking  in  my  throat  held 
me  silent.  For,  in  a  lightning  flash  of  fancy,  I  had  before 
me  the  glorious  might-have-been  that  would  have  driven 
the  waiting  hundreds  mad  with  joy.  I  pictured  how 
proudly  the  "large,  handsome  flag"  would  have  floated  in 
the  sunshine,  and  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  the  crowds  col- 
lected upon  the  sidewalks — the  gladness  that  would  have 
flooded  our  hearts  and  our  home. 

It  was,  perhaps,  five  minutes  before  I  could  manage  my 
voice  to  say: 

"How  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Clay  will  bear  it?" 

I  was  a  woman-child,  and  my  whole  soul  went  out  in  the 
longing  to  comfort  the  defeated  demigod. 

"Like  the  hero  that  he  is,  my  daughter.  This" — still 
not  naming  the  disaster — "means  more  to  the  nation  than 
to  him." 

He  raised  his  hat  involuntarily,  as  I  had  seen  him  do 
that  bright,  happy  May  morning  when  we  walked  down 
to  Jordan's  Creek  to  be  amused  by  the  Democratic  bar- 
becue. 

158 


VELVET    HATS    AND    CLAY'S    DEFEAT 

He  removed  it  entirely  a  week  later,  and  bowed  his  bared 
head  silently,  when  a  fellow-AVhig  told  him,  with  moist  eyes, 
that  the  decisive  tidings  were  brought  to  the  hero  as  he 
stood  in  a  social  gathering  of  friends.  Mr.  Clay — so  ran 
the  tale  I  have  never  heard  contradicted — was  called  out 
of  the  room  by  the  messenger,  returning  in  a  few  minutes 
to  resume  the  conversation  the  summons  had  interrupted, 
with  unruffled  mien  and  the  perfect  courtesy  that  never 
failed  him  in  public  and  in  private.  It  was  said  then  that 
he  repeated  on  that  evening,  in  reply  to  the  expressed  sor- 
row of  his  companions — if,  indeed,  it  was  not  said  then  for 
the  first  time — the  immortal  utterance: 

"I  would  rather  be  right  than  President!" 

The  inevitable  dash  of  the  ludicrous  struck  across  the 
calamity  in  the  form  of  my  father's  disapproval  of  the  vel- 
vet bonnet  I  would  not  have  exchanged  on  Saturday  for 
a  ducal  tiara.  I  had  meant  to  reserve  the  appearance  of 
it  as  a  pleasant  surprise,  and  to  call  his  attention  to  it 
when  I  was  dressed  for  church  next  day.  I  did  not  blame 
him  for  not  noticing  it  in  our  rapid  tramp  up  Capitol  Street 
on  Saturday.  He  had  weightier  matters  on  his  mind. 
With  the  honest  desire  of  diverting  him  from  the  train  of 
ideas  that  had  darkened  his  visage  for  twenty-four  hours, 
I  donned  the  precious  head-piece  ten  minutes  before  it  was 
time  to  set  out  for  church,  and  danced  into  my  moth- 
er's room  where  he  sat  reading.  Walking  up  to  him,  I 
swept  a  marvellous  courtesy  and  bolted  the  query  full  at 
him: 

"How  do  you  like  my  new  bonnet?" 

He  lowered  the  book  and  surveyed  me  with  lack-lustre 
eyes. 

"Not  at  all,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

I  fairly  staggered  back,  casting  a  look  of  anguished  ap- 
peal at  my  mother.  Being  of  my  sex,  she  comprehend- 
ed it. 

159 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Why,  father!  we  think  it  very  pretty/'  laying  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "And  she  never  had  a  velvet  bonnet 
before." 

I  saw  the  significant  tightening  of  the  small  fingers,  and 
he  must  have  felt  it.  But  the  dull  eyes  did  not  lighten, 
the  corners  of  the  mouth  did  not  lift. 

"As  I  said,  I  do  not  admire  it.  Nor  do  I  think  it  be- 
coming." 

I  turned  on  my  heel,  as  he  might  have  done,  and  went 
to  my  room.  When  Mea  and  I  joined  our  parents  in  the 
lower  hall,  the  splendors  of  the  new  bonnets  were  extin- 
guished by  thick  barege  veils.  We  had  not  meant  to  wear 
them  in  November.  They  were  indispensable  for  summer 
noons.  After  I  had  confided  my  tale  of  woe  to  my  sister, 
we  hastened  to  exhume  the  veils  from  our  trunks  and  to 
bind  them  over  our  hats.  We  walked,  slow  and  taciturn, 
behind  our  elders  for  five  squares.  Then  my  father  turned 
and  beckoned  to  us.  He  was  actually  smiling — a  whim- 
sical gleam  that  had  in  it  something  of  shame,  and  much 
of  humor. 

"Take  off  those  veils!"  he  said,  positively,  yet  kindly. 
And,  as  we  hesitated  visibly :  "I  mean  what  I  say !  I  want 
to  take  a  good  look  at  those  bonnets." 

It  was  in  a  quiet  corner  of  a  secluded  street,  lined  with 
what  was  once  a  favorite  shade-tree  in  Richmond — the 
Otaheite  mulberry.  The  night  had  been  cold,  and  the 
last  russet  leaves  were  ankle-deep  on  the  sidewalk.  They 
rustled  as  I  moved  uneasily  in  loosening  my  veil. 

I  never  passed  the  spot  afterward  without  thinking  of 
the  absurd  little  episode  in  the  history  of  those  melancholy 
days. 

"I  see,  now,  that  they  are  very  pretty  and  very  be- 
coming," my  father  pursued,  as  they  were  divested  of  the 
ugly  mufflers.  "  I  have  been  very  cross  for  the  past  twenty- 
four  horn's.     I  suppose  because  I  have  been  horribly  upset 

160 


VELVET  HATS  AND  CLAY'S  DEFEAT 

by  the  National  calamity.     We  will  turn  over  a  new  and 
cleaner  leaf." 

He  was  often  stern,  and  oftener  imperative.  It  was  his 
nature  to  be  strong  in  all  that  he  set  his  hand  or  mind 
unto.  I  have  yet  to  see  another  strong  man  who  was  so 
ready  to  acknowledge  a  fault,  and  who  made  such  clean 
work  of  the  act. 


XVI 

HOME    AT    CHRISTMAS — A    CANDY-PULL    AND    HOG-KILLING 

We  went  home  at  Christmas! 

Twenty  years  were  to  elapse  before  I  should  spend  an- 
other Christmas  week  in  the  country.  We  did  not  know 
this  then.  Not  a  hitch  impeded  the  smooth  unrolling  of 
the  weeks  of  expectation  and  the  days  of  preparation  for 
the  holidays.  We  were  to  set  out  on  Monday.  On  Friday, 
Spotswood  drove  up  to  our  door,  and  Mary  Anne,  my 
mother's  own  maid,  alighted.  That  evening  James  Ivey 
reported  for  escort  duty.  Even  elderly  women  seldom 
travelled  alone  at  that  date.  About  young  girls  were 
thrown  •  protective  parallels  that  would  widen  our  college- 
woman's  mouth  with  laughter  and  her  eyes  with  amaze- 
ment. There  were  no  footpads  on  the  stage -road  from 
Richmond  to  Powhatan,  and  had  these  gentry  abounded 
in  the  forests  running  down  to  the  wheel-tracks,  stalwart 
Spotswood  and  a  shot-gun  would  have  kept  them  at  bay. 
Maid  and  outrider  were  the  outward  sign  of  unspoken  and 
unwritten  conventions  rooted  in  love  of  womankind.  The 
physical  weakness  of  the  sex  was  their  strength;  their  de- 
pendence upon  stronger  arms  and  tender  hearts  their  war- 
rant for  any  and  every  demand  they  chose  to  make  upon 
their  natural  protectors. 

We  had  none  of  these  things  in  mind  that  joyful  Mon- 
day morning  when  Uncle  Cams,  on  one  hand,  and  James 
Ivey  on  the  other,  helped  us  into  the  carriage.  Carriage- 
steps  were  folded  up,  accordion-wise,  and  doubled  back  and 

162 


HOxME    AT    CHRISTMAS 

down  upon  the  floor  of  the  vehicle  when  not  in  use.  The 
clatter,  as  the  coach-door  was  opened  and  the  steps  let 
down,  was  the  familiar  accompaniment  of  successive  ar- 
rivals of  guests  at  hospitable  homes,  and  worshippers  at 
country  churches. 

The  trim  flight  fell  with  a  merry  rattle  for  the  two  hap- 
piest girls  in  the  State,  and  we  sprang  in,  followed  by 
Mary  Anne.  We  were  wedged  snugly  in  place  by  parcels 
that  filled  every  corner  and  almost  touched  the  roof. 
Presents  we  had  been  buying  for  a  month  with  our  own 
pocket-money  and  making  in  our  few  spare  hours,  were 
bound  into  bundles  and  packed  in  boxes.  The  wells  under 
the  cushioned  seats  were  crammed  with  fragiles  and  con- 
fectionery, the  like  of  which  our  lesser  sisters  and  brothers 
had  never  tasted. 

Uncle  Cams  prophesied  a  snow-storm.  My  mother  used 
to  say  that  he  was  a  wise  weather-prophet.  We  stubborn- 
ly discredited  the  prediction  until  we  had  left  the  city 
spires  five  miles  behind  us,  and  James  Ivey's  overcoat  and 
leggings  (some  called  them  " spatter-dashes")  were  dotted 
with  feathery  flakes.  Whereupon  we  discovered  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  jollier  than  travelling  in  a  snow- 
storm, and  grew  wildly  hilarious  in  the  prospect.  The 
snow  fell  steadily  and  in  grim  earnest.  By  the  time  we 
got  to  Flat  Rock,  where  we  were  to  have  the  horses  and 
ourselves  fed,  the  wheels  churned  up,  at  every  revolution, 
mud  that  was  crushed  strawberry  in  color,  topped  with 
whiteness  that  might  have  been  whipped  cream ;  for  the 
roads  were  heavy  by  reason  of  an  open  winter.  This  was 
Christmas  snow.  We  exulted  in  it  as  if  we  had  had  a 
hand  in  the  making.  Our  gallant  outrider,  albeit  a  staid 
youth  of  three-and-twenty,  fell  in  with  our  humor.  He 
made  feeble  fun  of  his  own  appearance  as  each  wrinkle  in 
his  garments  became  a  drift,  and  his  dark  hair  was  like  a 
horsehair  wig  such  as  we  had  seen  in  pictures  of  English 

12  163 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

barristers.  His  bay  horse  was  a  match  to  our  iron-grays, 
and  the  twelve  hoofs  were  ploughing  through  a  level  fall 
of  six  inches  before  we  espied  the  tremulous  sparks  we 
recognized  as  village  windows. 

Our  throats  ached  with  laughing  and  our  hearts  with 
great  swelling  waves  of  happiness,  as  we  tumbled  out  of 
our  seats — and  our  bundles  after  us — at  the  gate  of  the 
long,  low  house  that  might  have  been  mean  in  eyes  accus- 
tomed to  rows  of  three-storied  brick  "residences"  on  city 
streets.  Every  door  was  flung  wide;  every  window  was 
red  with  fire  and  lamp  light. 

We  had  fried  chicken  and  waffles,  hot  rolls,  ham,  beaten 
biscuits,  honey,  three  kinds  of  preserves,  and,  by  special 
petition  of  all  the  children,  a  mighty  bowl  of  snow  and 
cream,  abundantly  sweetened,  for  supper.  This  dispatched, 
and  at  full  length,  the  journey  having  made  us  hungry, 
and  the  sight  of  us  having  quickened  the  appetites  of  the 
rest,  we  sat  about  the  fire  in  the  great  "chamber"  on  the 
first  floor,  that  was  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  home,  and 
talked  until  ten  o'clock.  The  faithful  clock  that  hung 
above  the  mantel  did  not  vary  five  minutes  from  the  truth 
in  that  number  of  years;  but  it  was  dumbly  discreet, 
never  obtruding  an  audible  reminder  of  the  flight  of  hours. 
I  saw  one  of  the  same  pattern  in  a  curio  shop  last  week. 
The  salesman  asked  fifty  dollars  for  it. 

The  chimney  in  "the  chamber"  drew  better  than  any  other 
in  the  house.  A  fire  was  kindled  on  that  hearth,  night  and 
morning,  for  nine  months  in  the  year.  My  mother  main- 
tained that  the  excellent  health  of  her  young  family  was 
due  in  part  to  that  fact.  A  little  blaze  dispelled  the  linger- 
ing dampness  of  the  morning  and  the  gathering  fogs  of 
night.  She  knew  nothing  of  germs,  benevolent  and  malev- 
olent, but  she  appreciated  the  leading  fact  that  cold  and 
humidity  signify  danger,  heat  and  dryness  go  with  health. 

I  coveted  no  girl's  home  and  apparel,  as  Mea  and  I  snug- 

164 


HOME    AT    CHRISTMAS 

gled  down  under  our  blankets  on  the  mattress  my  father 
was  so  far  in  advance  of  his  times  as  to  insist  should  be 
substituted  for  a  feather-bed  in  each  bedroom  occupied  by 
a  child.  The  "whim"  was  one  of  the  "notions"  that 
earned  for  him  the  reputation  of  eccentricity  with  con- 
servative neighbors. 

Our  windows  were  casements,  and  rattled  sharply  in 
blasts  that  had  thrashed  the  snow-storm  into  a  tempest. 
The  wind  pounded,  as  with  hammers,  upon  the  sloping 
roof  over  our  happy  heads.  Longfellow  had  not  yet 
written 

"My  little  ones  are  folded  like  the  flocks," 

but  I  know  my  mother  felt  it. 

She  came  near  saying  it  when  I  told  her  at  the  breakfast- 
table  that  I  fell  asleep,  saying  to  myself: 

"He'll  go  into  the  barn  and  keep  himself  warm 
And  hide  his  head  under  his  wing." 

"I  could  think  of  nothing,  whenever  I  awoke,  but  the 
mother  sheep  with  her  lambs  all  with  her  in  the  fold,"  was 
her  answer.  "And  of 'the  hollow  of  His  hand.'  We  have 
much  to  make  us  thankful  this  Christmas." 

"To  make  us  thankful!"  She  was  ever  on  the  watch 
for  that.  Like  Martin  Luther's  little  bird,  she  "sat  on  her 
twig,  content,  and  let  God  take  care." 

A  bright  sun  left  little  of  what  had  promised  to  be  a  deep 
snow,  by  Christmas  Day.  Four  Christmas-guns  were  fired 
at  midnight  of  Christmas  Eve  in  four  different  quarters  of 
the  village.  That  is,  holes  were  drilled  with  a  big  auger 
into  the  heart  of  a  stout  oak  or  hickory,  and  stuffed  with 
powder.  At  twelve  o'clock  a  torch  was  applied  by  a  fast 
runner,  who  took  to  his  heels  on  the  instant  to  escape  the 
explosion.    The  detonation  was  that  of  a  big    cannon. 

165 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Sometimes,  the  tree  was  rent  apart.  That  was  a  matter  of 
small  moment  in  a  region  where  acres  of  forest-lands  were 
cleared  for  tobacco  fields  by  the  primitive  barbarism  of 
girdling  giant  trees  that  had  struck  their  roots  into  the 
virgin  soil  and  lifted  strong  arms  to  heaven  for  centuries. 
From  midnight  to  sunrise  the  sound  of  "pop-crackers" 
and  pistol-shots  was  hardly  intermitted  by  a  minute's  si- 
lence. With  the  awakening  of  quieter,  because  older  folk, 
the  air  rang  with  shouts  of  "Christmas  gift!"  addressed 
impartially  to  young  and  old,  white  and  black. 

The  salutation  was  a  grievous  puzzle  and  positive  an- 
noyance to  our  New-England  grandmother,  the  first  Christ- 
mas she  passed  with  us.  By  the  time  she  was  ready  for 
breakfast  she  had  emptied  her  pocket  of  loose  coins,  and 
bestowed  small  articles  of  dress  and  ornament  upon  three 
or  four  of  the  (to  her  apprehension)  importunate  claimants. 
When  she  made  known  the  grievance — which  she  did  in 
her  usual  imperious  fashion — my  father  shouted  with 
laughter.  With  difficulty  he  drilled  into  her  mind  that  the 
greeting  was  not  a  petition,  still  less  a  demand.  From  that 
day  he  forbade  any  of  us  to  say  "Christmas  gift!"  to  "Old 
Mistis,"  as  the  servants  called  her.  We  children  wished 
her,  "A  merry  Christmas."  The  servants  never  learned  the 
unaccustomed  form.  The  old  lady  did  not  enter  into  the 
real  significance  of  the  words  that  offended  her.  Nor,  for 
that  matter,  did  one  out  of  a  hundred  of  those  who  had 
used  it  all  their  lives,  as  each  Christmas  rolled  around.  It 
never  dawned  upon  me  until  I  heard  how  Russian  peas- 
ants and  Russian  nobility  alike  greet  every  one  they  meet 
on  Easter  morning  with — "The  Lord  is  risen,"  receiving  the 
answer,  "He  is  risen  indeed!"  The  exultant  cry  of  "Christ- 
mas gift!"  was  a  proclamation  of  the  best  thing  that  ever 
came  into  the  world.  The  exchange  of  holiday  offerings 
at  the  festal  season  commemorates  the  same.  All  over 
Christendom  it  is  an  act  of  grateful,  if  too  often  blind, 

166 


A    CANDY-PULL 

obedience  to  the  command — "Freely  ye  have  received, 
freely  give." 

There  were  twelve  servants  in  our  family — eight  adults 
and  four  children.  Not  one  was  overlooked  in  the  distri- 
bution of  presents  that  followed  breakfast  and  family 
prayers.  The  servants  were  called  in  to  morning  and  even- 
ing prayers  as  regularly  as  the  white  members  were  assem- 
bled for  the  service.  The  custom  was  universal  in  town 
and  country,  and  was,  without  doubt,  borrowed  from  Eng- 
lish country  life — the  model  for  Virginian  descendants. 
Men  and  women  took  time  to  pray,  and  made  haste  to  do 
nothing.  We  prate  long  and  loudly  now  of  deep  breathing. 
We  practised  it  in  that  earlier  generation. 

On  Christmas  night  we  had  a  "  molasses  stew."  We  have 
learned  to  say  "candy-pull"  since  then.  A  huge  cauldron 
of  molasses  was  boiled  in  the  kitchen — a  detached  building 
of  a  story-and-a-half,  standing  about  fifty  feet  from  "the 
house."  Gilbert — the  dining-room  servant,  who  would  be 
"a  butler"  now — brought  it  into  the  dining-room  when  it 
was  done  to  a  turn,  and  poured  it  into  great  buttered  plat- 
ters arranged  around  the  long  table.  All  of  us,  girls  and 
boys,  had  pinned  aprons  or  towels  over  our  festive  gar- 
ments, and  put  back  our  cuffs  from  our  wrists.  My  mother 
set  the  pace  in  the  pulling.  She  had  a  reputation  for  mak- 
ing the  whitest  and  most  spongy  candy  in  the  county,  and 
she  did  it  in  the  daintiest  way  imaginable.  Buttering  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  lightly,  she  drew  carefully  from  the  sur- 
face of  the  platter  enough  of  the  cooling  mixture  for  a 
good  "pull."  In  two  minutes  she  had  an  amber  ribbon, 
glossy  and  elastic,  that  bleached  fast  to  cream-color  under 
her  rapid,  weaving  motion,  until  she  coiled  or  braided  com- 
pleted candy — brittle,  dry,  and  porous — upon  a  dish  lined 
with  paper.  She  never  let  anybody  take  the  other  end  of 
the  rope;  she  did  not  butter  her  fingers  a  second  time, 
and  used  the  taper  tips  alone  in  the  work,  and  she  had  the 

167 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

candy  on  the  dish  before  any  of  the  others  had  the  sticky, 
scalding  mass  in  working  order.  We  dipped  our  fingers 
again  and  again  in  butter  and,  when  hard  bestead,  into 
flour,  which  last  resort  my  mother  scorned  as  unpro- 
fessional, and  each  girl  had  a  boy  at  the  other  end  of  her 
rope.  It  was  graceful  work  when  done  secundum  artetn. 
The  fast  play  of  hands;  the  dexterous  toss  and  exchange 
of  the  ends  of  shining  strands  that  stiffened  too  soon  if  not 
handled  aright;  the  strain  upon  bared  wrists  and  strong 
shoulders  as  the  great  ropes  hardened;  the  laughing  faces 
bent  over  the  task;  the  cries  of  feigned  distress  as  the  im- 
mature confectionery  became  sticky,  or  parted  into  strings, 
under  careless  manipulation;  the  merry  peals  of  laughter 
at  defeat  or  success — made  the  Christmas  frolic  picturesque 
and  gay.  I  wondered  then,  and  I  have  often  asked  since, 
why  no  painter  has  ever  chosen  as  a  subject  this  one  of  our 
national  pastimes. 

A  homelier,  but  as  characteristic  an  incident  of  that 
Christmas — the  last  we  were  to  have  in  the  country  home — 
was  hog-killing. 

The  "hog  and  hominy,"  supposed  by  an  ignorant  reading- 
public  to  have  formed  the  main  sustenance  of  the  Virginian 
planter  and  his  big  family,  are  as  popularly  believed  to  have 
been  raised  upon  his  own  farm  or  farms.  Large  herds  of 
pigs  were  born  and  brought  up  on  Virginia  lands.  Per- 
haps one-half  of  the  pork  cured  into  bacon  by  country  and 
by  village  folk,  was  bought  from  Kentucky  drovers.  Early  in 
the  winter — -before  the  roads  became  impassable — -immense 
droves  of  full-grown  hogs  crowded  the  routes  leading  over 
mountain  and  valley  into  the  sister  State.  We  had  notice 
of  the  approach  of  one  of  these  to  our  little  town  before  it 
appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  main  street,  by  the  hoarse 
grunting  that  swelled  into  hideous  volume — unmistakable 
and  indescribable — a  continuous  rush  of  dissonance,  across 
which  were  projected  occasional  squeals. 

168 


A    HOG-KILLING 

A  drove  had  entered  the  village  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas, and  rested  for  the  night  in  the  wide  "old  field"  back 
of  the  Bell  Tavern.  Citizens  of  the  Court  House  and  from 
the  vicinity  had  bought  freely  from  the  drovers.  More 
than  twenty  big-boned  grunters  were  enclosed  in  a  large 
pen  at  the  foot  of  our  garden,  and  fed  lavishly  for  ten  days, 
to  recover  them  from  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  that  left 
them  leaner  than  suited  the  fancy  of  the  purchaser.  On 
the  morning  of  the  cold  day  appointed  for  the  "killing," 
they  were  driven  to  a  near-by  "horse-branch"  and  washed. 
At  noon  they  were  slaughtered  at  a  spot  so  distant  from 
the  house  that  no  sound  indicative  of  the  deed  reached  our 
ears.  Next  day  the  carcasses  were  duly  cut  up  into  hams, 
shoulders,  middlings  (or  sides  of  bacon),  chines,  and  spareribs. 

Lean  leavings  from  the  dissection  were  apportioned  for 
sausage-meat;  the  heads  and  feet  would  be  made  into 
souse  (headcheese);  even  the  tails,  when  roasted  in  the 
embers,  were  juicy  tidbits  devoured  relishfully  by  children, 
white  and  black. 

Not  an  edible  atom  of  the  genial  porker  went  to  waste  in 
the  household  of  the  notable  housewife.  The  entrails, 
cleaned  and  scalded  into  "chitterlings,"  were  accounted  a 
luscious  delicacy  in  the  kitchen.  They  rarely  appeared  upon 
the  table  of  "white  folks."  I  never  saw  them  dished  for 
ourselves,  or  our  friends.  Yet  I  have  heard  my  father  tell 
of  meeting  John  Marshall,  then  Chief  Justice  of  the  United 
States,  in  the  Richmond  streets  one  morning,  as  the  great 
man  was  on  his  way  home  from  the  Old  Market.  He  had  a 
brace  of  ducks  over  one  arm,  and  a  string  of  chitterlings 
swung  jauntily  from  the  other. 

And  why  not?  Judge  Marshall  had  "Hudibras"  at  his 
tongue's  end,  and  could  have  quoted: 

"His  warped  ear  hung  o'er  the  strings, 
Which  was  but  souse  to  chitterlings." 
169 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  Virginia  house-mother  had  classic  precedent  for  the 
utilization  of  what  her  granddaughter  accounts  but  offal. 
I  once  heard  a  celebrated  divine  say,  unctuously: 
'"Hog-killing  time'  is  to  me  the  feast  of  the  year." 
And  nobody  stared,  or  smiled,  or  said  him  "Nay." 
Chine,  sparerib,  and  sausage,  such  as  titillated  our  palates 
in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  are  not  to  be  had 
now  for  love  or  money.  The  base  imitations  sold  to  us  in 
the  shambles  are  the  output  of  "contract  work." 


XVII 

A   NOTABLE   AFFAIR   OF   HONOR 

Early  in  the  second  winter  of  our  residence  in  Rich- 
mond, the  community  and  the  State  were  thrilled  to  pain- 
ful interest  by  the  most  notable  duel  recorded  in  the  history 
of  Virginia. 

On  the  desk  at  my  side  lies  a  time-embrowned  pamphlet, 
containing  a  full  report  of  the  legal  proceedings  that  suc- 
ceeded the  tragedy. 

The  leading  Democratic  paper  of  the  State  at  that  time 
was  published  by  Thomas  Ritchie  and  his  sons.  The  father, 
to  whom  was  awarded  the  title  of  "The  Nestor  of  the  South- 
ern Press,"  was  a  dignified  gentleman  who  had  won  the 
esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens  by  a  long  life  spent  under  the 
limelight  that  beats  more  fiercely  nowhere  than  upon  a 
political  leader  who  is  also  an  editor.  In  morals,  stainless, 
in  domestic  and  social  life,  exemplary  and  beloved,  the 
elder  Ritchie  enjoyed,  in  the  evening  of  his  day,  a  reputa- 
tion unblurred  by  the  rancor  of  partisan  spite.  The  policy 
of  his  paper  was  fearless,  but  never  unscrupulous.  To  the 
Democratic  party,  the  Enquirer  was  at  once  banner  and 
bulwark.  Of  his  elder  son,  William  Foushee,  I  shall  have 
something  to  say  in  later  chapters,  and  in  a  lighter  vein. 
The  second  son,  the  father's  namesake,  was  recognized  as 
the  moving  spirit  of  the  editorial  columns. 

John  Hampden  Pleasants  was  as  strongly  identified  with 
the  Whig  party.  He  was  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life;  like 
the  Ritchies,  descended  from  an  ancient  and  honorable 

171 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Virginia  family,  noble  in  physique,  and  courtly  in  bearing. 
He  held  a  trenchant  pen,  and  had  been  associated  from  his 
youth  up  with  the  press.  He  had  lately  assumed  the 
office  of  editor-in-chief  of  a  new  paper,  and  brought  it 
into  notice  by  vigorous  and  brilliant  editorials  that  were 
the  talk  of  both  parties. 

The  opening  gun  of  what  was  to  be  a  sanguinary  combat 
was  fired  by  a  Washington  correspondent  of  the  Enquirer, 
under  date  of  January  16,  1846: 

"I  am  much  mistaken  if  Mr.  John  Hampden  Pleasants 
does  not  intend,  with  his  new  paper,  to  out-Herod  Herod — 
to  take  the  lead  of  the  Intelligencer,  if  possible,  in  exciting 
Abolitionism  by  showing  Southern  Whig  sympathy  in 
their  movements;  and  thus,  for  the  benefit  of  Whiggery, 
to  cheat  them  into  the  belief  that  the  Southern  patrons 
of  either  of  these  gentlemen  are  ceasing  to  detest  their  in- 
cendiary principles,  and  beginning,  like  the  Whigs  of  the 
North,  to  coalesce  with  them. 

"They  agitate  to  affect  public  opinion  at  the  South,  and 
Messrs.  Gales  and  Pleasants  practically  tell  them  to  go  on 
— that  they  are  succeeding  to  admiration." 

It  was  a  poor  shot — more  like  a  boy's  play  with  a  toy 
gun  than  a  marksman's  aim.  But  the  bullet  was  poisoned 
by  the  reference  to  Abolitionism.  That  was  never  ineffec- 
tive. A  friend  in  conservative  Philadelphia  called  Mr. 
Pleasants'  notice  to  the  attack,  which  had  up  to  that  time 
escaped  his  eyes: 

"I  have  d d  this  as  a  lie  every  time  I  had  a  chance, 

although  I  believe  that  you,  like  myself — a  Virginian  and 
a  slaveholder— regard  Slavery  as  an  evil." 

Mr.  Pleasants  replied  in  terms  that  were  singularly  mild 
for  a  fighting  political  editor. 

I  may  say,  here,  that  it  is  a  gross  blunder  to  compare 

the  methods  of  party-writers  and  orators  of  to-day  with 

those  of  sixty  years  ago,  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  former. 

172 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

They  fought,  then,  without  the  gloves,  and  as  long  as  breath 
lasted. 

"I  confess  my  surprise,  nay,  my  regret,"  wrote  Mr. 
Pleasants,  "that  the  present  editors  of  the  Enquirer 
should,  by  publication,  have  indorsed,  so  far  as  that  sort 
of  indorsement  can  go,  and  without  any  explanatory  re- 
mark, the  misrepresentations  of  their  Washington  corre- 
spondent. They  ought,  as  public  men,  to  know  that  I 
stand  upon  exactly  the  same  platform  with  their  father 
in  respect  to  this  subject.  In  1832  we  stood,  for  once, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  since  that  time  we  have  both 
expressed,  without  intermission,  the  same  abhorrence  of 
Northern  Abolition,  and  the  same  determination,  under 
no  circumstances  which  could  be  imagined,  to  submit,  in 
the  slightest  degree,  to  its  dictation  or  intrusion.  .  .  . 

"  These  were  also  the  views — namely,  that  Slavery  was 
an  evil,  and  ought  to  be  got  rid  of,  but  at  our  own  time, 
at  our  own  motion,  and  in  our  own  way— of  Washington, 
Jefferson,  Henry,  George  Mason,  the  two  Lees,  Madison, 
Monroe,  Wirt,  and  all  the  early  patriots,  statesmen,  and 
sages  of  Virginia — without  exception! 

"Such  are  my  opinions  still,  and  if  they  constitute  me 
an  Abolitionist,  I  can  only  say  that  I  would  go  further  to 
see  some  of  the  Abolition  leaders  hanged  than  any  man 
in  Virginia,  especially  since  their  defeat  of  Mr.  Clay. 

"In  respect  to  Slavery,  I  take  no  pious,  no  fanatical 
view.  I  am  not  opposed  to  it  because  I  think  it  morally 
wrong,  for  I  know  the  multitude  of  slaves  to  be  better  off 
than  the  whites.  I  am  against  it  for  the  sake  of  the  whites, 
my  own  race.  I  see  young  and  powerful  commonwealths 
around  us,  with  whom,  while  we  carry  the  burden  of 
Slavery,  we  can  never  compete  in  power,  and  yet  with 
whom  we  must  prepare  to  contend  with  equal  arms,  or 
consent  to  be  their  slaves  and  vassals — we  or  our  children. 
In  all,  I  look  but  to  the  glory  and  liberty  of  Virginia." 

173 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  confession  of  State's  Rights  would  seem  strong 
enough  to  soften  the  heart  of  an  original  Secessionist — a 
being  as  yet  unheard  of — and  the  respectful  mention  of 
the  Nestor  of  the  Enquirer  might  have  drawn  the  fire  of 
the  filial  editor.  How  far  these  failed  of  their  effect  is 
obvious  in  the  return  shot: 

"Although  the  language  used  by  Mr,  Pleasants  may  not 
be  considered  directly  offensive,  yet  we  are  unwilling  to 
allow  him  or  others  to  make  hypotheses  in  regard  to  our 
veracity.  When  we  desire  lectures  on  morals  we  hope  to 
be  allowed  to  choose  our  own  preceptor.  We  certainly 
shall  not  apply  to  Mm!" 

In  Mr.  Pleasants'  rejoinder  he  again  reminds  the  young 
men  that  their  father  and  himself  had  been  of  the  same 
mind  on  the  Slavery  question  for  twenty  years: 

"The  correspondent  may  have  believed  what  he  said, 
in  ignorance  of  the  facts,  and  may  therefore  be  guiltless 
of  premeditated  injustice,  but  the  editors  who  indorse  his 
calumny  by  printing  it  without  any  explanation,  either 
did  know  better,  in  which  case  their  candor  and  liberality 
are  compromised,  or  ought  to  have  known  better,  in  which 
case  they  themselves  may  say  what  responsibility  they  in- 
cur by  printing  an  accusation  utterly  false  in  fact,  and 
calculated  to  infuse  the  greatest  possible  prejudice  against 
him  respecting  whom  it  is  promulgated." 

The  answer  of  the  Enquirer  was  a  sneer  throughout: 

"We  doubt  whether  he  knows,  himself,  what  principles  he 
may  be  disposed  to  advocate.  His  most  intimate  friends 
are  sometimes  puzzled  to  understand  his  position.  ...  If 
our  correspondent  'Macon'  wishes  it,  he  will,  of  course, 
have  the  use  of  our  columns,  but  if  he  will  take  our 
advice,  he  will  let  Mr.  J.  H.  P.  alone.  To  use  an  old 
proverb — 'Give  the  gentleman  rope  enough,  and  he  will 
hang  himself!'" 

In  a  long  letter  to  a  personal  friend,  but  published  in 

174 


A   NOTABLE   AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

the  News  and  Star — what  would  be  called  now  an  "open 
letter" — Mr.  Pleasants  sums  up  the  points  of  the  con- 
troversy, and  calmly  assumes  the  animus  of  the  attack 
to  be  personal  enmity,  a  sort  of  vendetta  feud,  against 
which  argument  is  powerless: 

"  Justice  from  the  Richmond  Enquirer  I  have  long  ago 
ceased  to  expect.  For  more  than  twenty  years  I  have 
lived  under  its  ceaseless  misrepresentations  and  malevo- 
lent misconstructions.  I  had  hoped,  when  the  former 
editor  removed  to  Washington  to  reoeive  the  rich  rewards 
of  his  devotion  to  party,  to  live  upon  better  terms  with 
his  successors,  and  I  have  studied  to  cultivate  better  re- 
lations by  respectful  consideration  and  undeviating  cour- 
tesy; but  I  have  found  that  other  passions  besides  the  love 
of  liberty  are  transmitted  from  sire  to  son.  .  .  .  Calmly  re- 
viewing this  piece  of  impertinence,  I  should  be  of  opinion 
that  this  assailant  meditated  fight,  if  I  could  think  that 
a  young  brave  would  seek,  as  an  antagonist  upon  whom  to 
flesh  his  maiden  sword,  a  man  so  much  older  than  him- 
self as  I  am,  and  with  dependent  children." 

In  allusion  to  a  former  altercation  with  "II  Secretario," 
a  "foe  illustrious  for  his  virtues  and  talents,  whom  this 
aspirant  after  knighthood"  declined  to  encounter — the 
senior  combatant  concludes: 

"Battle,  then,  being  clearly  not  his  object,  I  must  suppose 
that  he  meant  no  more  than  a  little  gasconade,  and  the  re- 
covery, at  a  cheap  rate,  of  a  forfeited  reputation  for 
courage." 

With  the,  to  modern  taste,  odd  blending  of  personality 
with  editorial  anonymity  that  characterized  the  pro- 
fessional duel  throughout,  "We,  the  junior  editor," 
retorts: 

"This  letter  affords  strong  corroborative  evidence  of  our 
opinion  expressed  in  our  article  of  the  27th  ultimo,  and 
from  Mr.  J.  H.  Pleasants'  communication,  evidently  under- 

175 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

stood  by  him  to  the  extent  we  intended — namely,  that  facts 
within  our  knowledge  proved  him  to  be  a  coward. 

"He  appeals  to  the  confines  of  age  and  dependent  chil- 
dren.    Let  it  be!    We  shall  not  disturb  him." 

Ten  years  after  the  correspondence  and  the  "affair"  to 
which  it  was  the  prelude,  an  eminently  respectable  citizen 
of  Richmond  told  my  husband  of  a  street-corner  scene, 
date  of  February  21,  1846,  the  day  on  which  the  last  con- 
tribution to  the  war  of  words  above  recorded^  appeared  in 
the  Enquirer. 

"One  of  the  groups  one  saw  on  all  sides,  in  heated  dis- 
cussion of  the  newspaper    controversy  and  the  probable 

outcome,  was  collected  about  Doctor ,  then,  as  now, 

pastor  of  the Church.     He  read  out  the  last 

sentences  of  Ritchie's  ultimatum  with  strong  excitement. 
Then  he  struck  the  paper  with  his  finger,  and  said:  'That 
settles  the  matter!  Pleasants  must  fight!  There  is  no 
way  out  of  it !' 

"One  of  the  party  ventured  a  remonstrance  to  the  effect 
that  'Pleasants  was  not  a  hot-headed  boy  to  throw  his  life 
away.  He  might  be  made  to  see  reason,  and  the  matter 
be  smoothed  over,'  etc. 

"The  minister  broke  in  warmly,  with— 

"'Impossible,  sir,  impossible!  No  honorable  man  could 
sit  down  quietly  under  the  insult!  He  must  fight!  There 
is  no  alternative!' 

"Now,"  continued  the  narrator,  "I  am  not  a  church- 
member,  and  I  had  no  overstrained  scruples  against  duel- 
ling at  that  time.  But  it  sent  a  queer  shock  through  me 
when  I  heard  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  peace  take  that 
ground.  I  felt  that  I  could  never  go  to  hear  him  preach 
again.  And  I  never  did !  I  heard  he  made  a  most  feeling 
allusion  to  poor  Pleasants  in  a  sermon  preached  shortly 
after  his  death.  That  didn't  take  the  bad  taste  out  of  my 
mouth." 

176 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

How  general  was  the  sympathy  with  the  incautiously 
expressed  opinion  of  the  divine  can  hardly  be  appreciated 
now  that  the  duello  is  reckoned  among  the  errors  of  a  ruder 
age.  The  city  was  in  a  ferment  for  the  three  days  sepa- 
rating the  21st  of  February  and  the  25th,  on  which  the 
memorable  encounter  took  place.  If  any  friend  essayed 
to  reconcile  the  offending  and  offended  parties,  we  have 
no  note  of  it. 

The  nearest  approach  to  arbitration  recorded  in  the 
story  of  the  trial  is  in  the  testimony  of  a  man  well- 
acquainted  with  both  parties,  who  was  asked  by  one  of  Mr. 
Ritchie's  seconds  to  "go  upon  the  ground  as  a  mutual 
friend." 

He  testified  on  the  stand:  "I  declined  to  do  so.  I 
asked  him  if  the  matter  could  be  adjusted.  I  asked  if 
Mr.  Ritchie  would  not  be  willing  to  withdraw  the  epithet 
of  '  coward, '  in  case  Mr.  Pleasants  should  come  upon  the 
field.  His  reply  was  that  Mr.  Ritchie  conscientiously  be- 
lieved Mr.  Pleasants  to  be  a  coward." 

The  persuasions  of  other  friends  to  whom  he  spoke,  at 
an  evening  party  (!),  of  the  affair  to  come  off  on  the  morrow, 
overcame  the  scruples  of  the  reluctant  pacificator.  He 
accompanied  the  surgeon  (the  most  eminent  in  the  city, 
and  one  of  the  Faculty  of  Richmond  Medical  College)  to 
the  ground  next  morning.  The  meeting  was  no  secret, 
except — presumably — to  the  authorities  who  might  have 
prevented  it.  Going  up  to  Mr.  Ritchie's  second,  he  made 
a  final  effort  to  avert  the  murder: 

"I  renewed  the  application  I  had  made  the  evening  be- 
fore, telling  him  that  Mr.  Pleasants  was  on  the  field,  and 
asking  him  if  he  wTould  not  withdraw  the  imputation  of 
cowardice.  He  replied  that  he  would  keep  his  friend  there 
fifteen  minutes,   and  no  longer." 

The  morning  was  raw,  and  the  wind  from  the  river  was 
searching.     There  had  been  rain  during  the  night,  and  the 

177 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ground  was  slippery  with  sleet.  The  principals  were 
equipped  with  other  arms  than  the  duelling  pistols. 

"Mr.  Pleasants  put  a  revolver  into  the  left  pocket  of 
his  coat;  then  he  took  two  duelling  pistols,  one  in  his 
right,  and  the  other  in  his  left  hand."  At  this  point  the 
witness  interpolates:  "I  looked  away  about  that  time." 
(As  well  he  might!)  "The  next  weapon  I  saw  him  arm 
himself  with  was  his  sword-cane  under  his  left  arm.  He 
had  a  bowie-knife  under  his  vest." 

Of  Mr.  Ritchie  it  was  testified: 

"He  had  four  pistols  and  also  a  revolver.  He  had  the 
larger  pistols  in  his  belt.  I  did  not  see  his  sword  until 
after  the  rencontre.  He  had  it  drawn  when  I  came  up  to 
him.     I  supposed  it  was  a  bowie-knife." 

After  a  brief  parley  as  to  the  disadvantages  of  a  position 
first  selected,  and  the  choice  of  a  second,  the  word  was 
given  to  advance  and  fire.  The  principals  were  two  hun- 
dred yards  apart  when  the  word  was  given. 

"Mr.  Ritchie  fired  at  the  distance  of  twenty-five  or 
thirty  yards.  Mr.  Pleasants  fired  his  first  pistol  within 
about  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  of  Mr.  Ritchie.  ...  At  the 
third  shot  they  were  more  rapid.  Mr.  Pleasants  advanced. 
At  the  third  fire  Mr.  Ritchie's  form  became  obscure;  Mr. 
Pleasants  still  advancing,  I  saw  him  within  six  or  seven 
feet  of  Mr.  Ritchie.  It  was  then  that  Mr.  Pleasants  fired 
his  second  pistol." 

Thus  the  eminent  surgeon,  who  had  refused  to  come 
to  the  field  as  the  friend  of  both  parties,  but  yielded  when 
asked  to  serve  in  his  professional  capacity.  He  remarks, 
parenthetically,  here: 

"I  am  now  giving  my  recollection  of  events  transpiring 
in  a  short  time  and  under  great  excitement." 

Perhaps,  in  spite  of  the  great  excitement,  the  training 
of  his  calling  held  his  senses  steady,  for  his  story  of  the 
fight  is  graphic  and  succinct. 

178 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

"I  saw  Mr.  Pleasants  level  his  second  pistol;  I  heard 
the  report ;  I  saw  Mr.  Ritchie  stagger  back,  and  I  remarked 
to  Mr.  D. "  (the  man  who  had  been  overpersuaded  to  wit- 
ness the  murder  as  a  "mutual  friend"),  "  'Ritchie  is  a  dead 
man !'  I  so  inferred,  because  he  had  staggered  back.  Then 
I  heard  several  discharges  without  knowing  who  was  fire- 
ing.  I  saw  Mr.  Pleasants  striking  at  Mr.  Ritchie  with  some 
weapon — whether  a  cane  or  a  pistol,  I  do  not  know.  I 
also  saw  him  make  several  thrusts  with  a  sword-cane. 
He  gave  several  blows  and  two  or  three  thrusts.  I  do  not 
know  if  the  sword  was  sheathed.  During  this  part  of  the 
affair  I  saw  Mr.  Ritchie  with  his  sword  in  his  hand.  I 
did  not  see  him  draw  it.  I  saw  him  in  the  attitude  of  one 
making  a  thrust,  and  did  see  him  make  one  or  two  thrusts 
at  Mr.  Pleasants.  I  remarked  to  Mr.  D.,  'Let  us  go  up, 
or  he'll  be  stabbed!'  Two  or  three  times  the  cry  was 
made, 'Stop,  Pleasants!  Stop,  Ritchie!'  We  went  up.  Mr. 
Pleasants  was  tottering;  Mr.  Ritchie  was  standing  a  few 
feet  away,  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground;  he  was 
perfectly  quiet.  Mr.  Archer  took  Mr.  Pleasants'  arm  and 
laid  him  down.  He  was  on  the  ground  when  I  reached 
him.  Before  I  got  to  him  I  saw  Mr.  Ritchie  leaving  the 
ground.     He  walked  a  short  distance,  and  then  ran." 

It  transpired  afterward  that  not  one  of  Pleasants's  balls 
had  struck  Ritchie.  The  presumption  was  that  the  elder 
man  was  wounded  by  his  opponent's  first  fire,  and  fired 
wildly  in  consequence.  He  received  six  balls  in  various 
parts  of  his  body.  But  one  of  his  bullets  was  found,  and 
that  in  the  gable  of  a  building  out  of  the  line  of  the  firing. 
The  ball  was  embedded  in  the  wood,  nine  feet  above  the 
ground.  Mad  with  pain  and  blinded  by  rage,  the  wounded 
man  struck  at  the  other's  face  when  they  were  near  to- 
gether— some  said,  with  the  useless  pistol,  others  with  his 
sword-cane  or  bowie-knife.  When  the  fugitive  reached  the 
carriage  in  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  his  face  was  cov- 
13  179 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ered  with  blood.  His  physician  was  in  the  carriage,  and 
examined  him  at  once.  But  for  the  cut  lip  he  was  abso- 
lutely uninjured. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  when  John  Hampden  Pleasants 
was  lifted  into  the  carriage  and  borne  back  to  the  city. 
He  knew  himself  to  be  mortally  wounded  from  the  mo- 
ment he  fell. 

This  was  on  Wednesday,  February  25th.  Before  the 
short  winter  day  neared  its  noon,  the  tale  was  known  from 
one  end  of  Richmond  to  the  other,  and  the  whole  popu- 
lation heaved  with  excitement.  Business  was  practically 
suspended  while  men  talked  over  the  terrible  event;  the 
sidewalks  were  blocked  by  gossiping  idlers. 

Our  school  was  called  to  order  at  nine  o'clock  daily.  On 
this  morning,  teachers  and  pupils  were  unfit  for  lessons. 
For  Mr.  Pleasants'  only  daughter  was  one  of  us,  and  a 
general  favorite.  His  niece  was  likewise  a  pupil,  and  the 
two  had  the  same  desk.  Their  vacant  chairs  made  the 
tragedy  a  personal  grief  to  each  of  us.  When  Mrs.  Notting- 
ham bade  us  get  our  Bibles  ready  for  the  morning  service, 
not  a  girl  there  could  read  without  a  break  in  her  trembling 
voice,  and  when  the  dear  old  lady  made  tender  mention 
in  her  prayer  of  the  " sorrowing,"  and  for  "those  drawing 
near  unto  death,"  our  sobs  drowned  the  fervent  tones. 

I  recall,  as  one  of  the  minor  incidents  of  the  dreadful 
day,  that  when  I  went  home  in  the  afternoon,  my  grand- 
mother insisted  I  should  read  the  newspaper  corre- 
spondence aloud  to  her.  She  was  a  captious  tyrant  at 
times,  and,  like  many  another  deaf  person,  sensitive  as  to 
the  extent  of  her  infirmity.  She  "was  not  so  very  deaf, 
except  in  damp  weather,  or  when  she  had  a  cold.  If  people 
would  only  speak  distinctly,  and  not  mumble,  she  would 
have  no  trouble  in  understanding  what  was  said."  In 
this  connection  she  often  made  flattering  exception  of  my- 
self as  the  "one  girl  she  knew  who  could  speak  English." 

180 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

In  this  capacity  she  summoned  me  to  her  side.  She  had 
the  week's  papers  on  her  lap.  I  must  pick  out  the  articles 
"that  were  responsible  for  this  scandalous  affair." 

Down  I  sat,  close  beside  her  "good  ear,"  and  read,  with 
precise  articulation  and  right  emphasis,  the  editorials  from 
which  I  have  made  excerpts  in  this  chapter. 

In  copying  them  to-day,  the  strait-laced  New-England- 
er's  classification  of  the  awful  event  is  in  my  mind  and  ear. 
Every  detail  of  the  duel  and  the  cold-blooded  preparations 
therefor — the  deadly  weapons  borne  by,  and  girt  about 
the  principals;  the  sang-froid  of  seconds  and  attendant 
"friends";  the  savagery  of  the  combat ;  the  tone  of  public 
sentiment  that  made  the  foul  fight  within  sight  of  the 
steeples  of  the  city  practicable,  although  the  leading  men 
of  the  place  were  cognizant  of  each  step  that  led  to  the 
scene  on  the  river-bank  before  sunrise  that  gray  morning 
— can  we,  in  these  later  times  we  are  wont  to  compare  re- 
gretfully with  those,  sum  up  the  details  and  the  catas- 
trophe in  phrase  more  fit  and  true? 

I  resented  it  hotly,  if  silently,  then.  Even  my  father, 
who  always  spoke  of  duelling  as  a  "remnant  of  Middle  Age 
barbarism,"  shared  in  the  universal  grief  for  his  party 
leader  laid  low  in  the  prime  of  his  useful  manhood,  and 
would  suffer  no  censure  of  the  challenge  that  had  made  the 
fight  inevitable. 

"Pleasants  is  a  brave  man,  and  a  proud.  He  could  not 
endure  to  sit  down  quietly  under  the  aspersion  of  cow- 
ardice." 

Another  terrible  day  of  suspense  dragged  its  slow  length 
along.  Hourly  bulletins  from  the  chamber  where  the 
wounded  man  was  making  his  last  struggle  with  Fate, 
alternately  cheered  and  depressed  us.  He  was  conscious 
and  cheerful;  he  had  exonerated  his  opponent  from  blame 
in  the  matter  of  the  duel : 

"  I  thought  I  had  run  him  through.     It  was  providential 

181 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

that  I  did  not.  Ritchie  is  a  brave  man.  I  shall  not  re- 
cover. You  will  be  candid  with  me,  Doctor?  It  is  all 
right." 

These  were  some  of  the  sentences  caught  up  by  young 
and  old,  and  repeated  with  tearful  pride  in  the  dying  hero. 
That  was  what  they  called  him ;  and  when  on  Friday  morn- 
ing the  flag  on  the  capitol  hung  at  half-mast,  the  mourners 
who  went  about  the  streets  were  his  fellow-townsmen,  who 
had  no  word  of  condemnation  for  him  and  the  rash  act 
that  ended  his  career. 

On  Saturday  morning  it  began  to  snow.  By  Sunday 
afternoon  the  streets  were  eighteen  inches  deep  on  the 
level,  with  the  heaviest  snow-fall  of  the  season.  Mrs. 
Pleasants,  the  widow  of  a  governor  of  Virginia,  and  the 
mother  of  the  slain  editor,  was  a  member  of  the  Grace 
Street  Presbyterian  Church,  of  which  Reverend  Doctor 
Stiles  was  then  pastor.  The  funeral  services  were  held 
there  on  Sunday,  at  3  o'clock  p.m.  By  two  the  side- 
walks were  blocked  by  a  crowd  of  silent  spectators,  and, 
half  an  hour  later,  every  seat  in  the  church,  except  those 
reserved  for  the  family  and  immediate  friends  of  the  de- 
ceased, was  filled.  After  these  had  taken  their  places, 
there  was  not  standing-room  in  aisles  or  galleries.  The 
sermon  was  an  eloquent  tribute  to  the  private  virtues  and 
the  public  services  of  the  deceased.  One  memorable  ex- 
tract is  inscribed  upon  the  monument  erected  by  admirers 
and  friends  over  his  grave  in  Shockoe  Hill  Cemetery: 

THflltb  a  (Senilis   above   talent,  a   Courage 
above  *K)ecoi0m 

None  ever  forgot  the  scene  who  saw  the  long  line  of  funeral 
carriages  winding,  like  a  black  stream,  through  streets 
where  the  snow  came  up  to  the  axles,  under  the  low-hang- 
ing sky  that  stooped  heavily  and  gloomed  into  leaden  gray 

182 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

by  the  time  the  cortege  reached  the  cemetery.  And  all 
the  afternoon  the  brooding  air  throbbed  with  the  tolling 
bells. 

We  said  and  believed  that  Richmond  had  never  known 
so  sad  a  day  since  she  went  into  mourning  for  the  three- 
score victims  of  the  burning  of  the  theatre  in  1811. 

The  trial  of  Thomas  Ritchie  for  murder  in  the  first,  and 
of  the  seconds  as  "  principals  in  the  second  degree,"  fol- 
lowed the.  duel  with  swiftness  amazing  to  the  reader  of 
criminal  cases  in  our  age.  On  March  31,  1846,  four  of  the 
ablest  lawyers  in  Virginia  appeared  in  court  to  defend  the 
prisoner. 

The  old  brochure  which  records  the  proceedings  is  curious 
and  deeply  interesting  reading;  in  nothing  more  remark- 
able than  in  the  defence  of  what  was  admitted  to  be  "an 
unhappy  custom"  and  directly  opposed  to  the  laws  of 
the  country. 

"  The  letter  of  the  law  is  made  to  yield  to  the  spirit  of  the 
times"  is  an  italicized  sentence  in  the  principal  speech  of 
the  defence.  The  same  speaker  dwelt  long  and  earnestly 
upon  precedents  that  palliated,  excused,  and  warranted  the 
time-honored  (although  "unhappy")  practice. 

Not  less  than  fifteen  instances  of  the  supremacy  of  the 
higher  law  of  the  "spirit  of  the  times"  were  drawn  from 
English  history. 

"In  not  one  of  which  had  there  been  any  prosecu- 
tion. 

"And  now,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  does  any  one  sup- 
pose that  duelling  can  be  suppressed,  or  capitally  punished, 
when  the  first  men  in  the  kingdom — such  men  as  Pitt  and 
Fox,  and  Castlereagh  and  Canning  and  Grattan,  and 
Nelson  and  Wellington,  lend  the  high  sanction  of  their 
names,  and  feel  themselves  justified  and  compelled  to  peril 
their  lives  upon  a  point  of  honor?  And  I  would  ask  my 
friend,  the  Commonwealth's  Attorney,  if  such  men  as  these 

183 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

constitute  the  'swordsmen  of  England/  and  were  alone 
worthy  of  the  times  of  Tamerlane  and  Bajazet?  .  .  . 

"Was  Andrew  Jackson  regarded  as  a  'swordsman'  and 
duellist  because  he  fought,  not  one,  but  three  duels,  and 
once  shed  the  blood  of  a  fellow-man  in  single  combat?  He 
was  twice  elected  to  the  first  office  in  the  world,  and  died 
a  Christian.  .  .  .  How  many  of  Henry  Clay's  numerous 
friends  in  Virginia,  and,  especially,  the  religious  portion  of 
them  (including  ministers  of  the  Gospel),  refused  to  vote 
for  him  as  President  of  the  United  States  because  he  had 
fought  two  duels?  .  .  . 

"The  coroner's  inquest  held  on  the  body  of  General 
Hamilton  brought  in  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder  against 
Aaron  Burr,  Vice-President  of  the  United  States. 

"Colonel  Burr  afterward  took  his  seat  in  the  Senate  of 
the  United  States  as  Vice-President;  his  second,  afterward, 
became  a  judge;  and  the  second  of  General  Hamilton — a 
most  amiable  and  accomplished  man — I  served  with  in 
Congress,  some  years  ago.  .  .  . 

"I  call  upon  you,  then,  gentlemen,  by  every  motive  that 
can  bind  you  to  a  discharge  of  your  duty,  to  do  justice  to 
my  unfortunate  young  friend.  Bind  up  the  wounds  of  his 
broken-hearted  parents;  carry  joy  and  peace  and  conso- 
lation to  his  numerous  family  and  friends;  wash  out  the 
stain  that  has  been  attempted  upon  his  character  and 
reputation,  and  restore  him  to  his  country — as,  in  truth,  he 
is — pure  and  unspotted." 

The  address  of  the  Commonwealth's  Attorney  is  com- 
paratively brief  and  emphatically  half-hearted.  We  are 
entirely  prepared  for  the  announcement  in  smaller  type  at 
the  foot  of  the  last  page: 

"The  argument  on  both  sides"  (!)  "having  been  con- 
cluded, the  jury  took  the  case,  and,  without  leaving  the 
box,  returned  a  verdict  of  'Not  guilty!' 

"The  verdict  was  received  by  the  large  auditory  with 

184 


A    NOTABLE    AFFAIR    OF    HONOR 

loud  manifestations  of  applause.  Order  was  promptly  com- 
manded by  the  officers  of  the  court. 

"Mr.  Ritchie  then  left  the  court-house,  accompanied  by 
the  greater  portion  of  the  spectators,  who  seemed  eager  to 
shake  hands  with  him  and  to  congratulate  him  upon  his 
honorable  acquittal." 


XVIII 

THE  MENACE   OP    SLAVE   INSURRECTION 

"Richmond,  June  8th,  1847. 

"Dear  Effie, — It  is  past  ten  o'clock,  and  a  rainy  night. 
Just  such  a  one  as  would  make  a  comfortable  bed  and  a 
sound  snooze  no  mean  objects  of  desire. 

"George  Moody,  alias  'The  Irresistible/  arrived  this  after- 
noon, and  will  leave  in  the  morning,  and  I  cannot  let  so  good 
an  opportunity  of  writing  to  you  escape.  I  must  scribble  a 
brief  epistle. 

"The  drive  down  from  Powhatan  was  delightful.  I  found 
Mr.  Belt  extremely  pleasant,  full  of  anecdote,  a  great  talker, 
yet,  withal — as  Mr.  Miller  had  told  me — a  good  listener.  A 
very  necessary  qualification,  by-the-way,  for  any  one  with 
whom  I  may  chance  to  be  in  company. 

"The  first  thing  I  heard  when  I  reached  home  was  tidings 
of  that  worst  of  bugbears  to  a  Southern  woman — an  impend- 
ing insurrection.  A  double  guard  was  on  duty  at  the  capitol, 
and  a  detachment  of  military  from  the  armory  paraded  the 
streets  all  night.  I  was,  I  confess,  somewhat  alarmed,  and 
not  a  little  startled,  but  gradually  my  fears  wore  away,  and 
I  slept  as  soundly  that  night  as  if  no  such  thing  were  in 
agitation. 

"'Puss  Sheppard  was  in  to  supper,  and  her  parting  saluta- 
tion to  us  at  going  was:  'Farewell!  If  I  am  alive  in  the  morn- 
ing I  will  come  and  see  if  you  are!' 

"The  whole  matter  ended,  like  Mr.  C.'s  sermon — 'just  where 
it  began — viz.,  in  nothing.' 

"Richmond  is  rather  dull  at  present.  The  Texas  excite- 
ment has  subsided  almost  entirely,  and  those  who  gave  cre- 

186 


THE    MENACE    OF    SLAVE    INSURRECTION 

dence  to  the  report  of  the  insurrection  are  desirous  to  keep 
as  still  as  possible. 

"Morning. — I  can  write  no  more.  I  am  sure  your  good- 
nature will  acquit  me  of  blame  so  far  as  matter,  chirography, 
and  quality  go,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  written  this  partly 
by  the  light  of  a  lamp  which  finally  went  out,  self-extinguished 
for  want  of  oil,  and  partly  this  morning,  when  I  am  suffering 
with  a  sick-headache.  I  feel  more  like  going  to  bed  than 
writing,  but  'The  Unexceptionable'  is  about  to  take  his  de- 
parture, and  waits  for  this.  Write  soon  and  much.  I  will 
try  to  treat  you  better  next  time." 

There  is  much  reading  between  the  lines  to  be  done  for 
the  right  comprehension  of  that  letter.  My  genre  pictures 
of  days  that  are  no  more  would  be  incomplete  were  I  to 
fail  to  touch  upon  the  "worst  of  bugbears"  I  feigned  to 
pass  over  lightly. 

In  the  debate  upon  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  my  native 
State,  lost  by  one  vote  in  the  Legislature  of  1831-32,  while 
Nat  Turner's  insurrection  was  fresh  in  the  public  mind, 
John  Randolph  declared,  "Whenever  the  fire-alarm  rings 
in  Richmond  every  mother  clasps  her  baby  closer  to  her 
breast." 

I  cannot  recollect  when  the  whisper  of  the  possibility  of 
"Insurrection"  (we  needed  not  to  specify  of  what  kind) 
did  not  send  a  sick  chill  to  my  heart.  The  menace  I  here 
dismiss  with  a  sentence  or  two  was  the  most  serious  that 
had  loomed  upon  my  horizon.  I  could  not  trust  myself 
to  dwell  upon  it  within  the  two  days  that  had  elapsed  since 
my  return  from  a  vacation  month  in  Powhatan.  How 
keenly  every  circumstance  attending  it  was  bitten  into  my 
mind  is  proved  by  the  distinctness  of  the  etching  preserved 
by  a  memory  that  has  let  many  things  of  greater  mo- 
ment escape  its  hold. 

My  host,  Mr.  D.,  had  come  in  to  dinner  the  day  before 
that  set  for  my  stage-journey  back  to  town,  with  the  pleasing 

187 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

intelligence  that  Mr.  Lloyd  Belt,  a  former  citizen  of  Pow- 
hatan, but  for  twenty  years  a  resident  of  Richmond,  was 
"going  down" — Richmond  was  always  "down,"  as  Lon- 
don is  "up"  from  every  part  of  England — the  next  day, 
and  would  be  glad  to  take  me  in  his  carriage.  As  I  wrote 
to  Effie,  the  drive  was  delightful.  My  courtly  escort  took 
as  much  pains  to  entertain  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  belle  and 
a  beauty,  instead  of  an  unformed  school-girl.  It  was  a 
way  they  had — those  gentlemen  of  the  Old  School — of 
recognizing  the  woman  in  every  baby-girl,  and  doing  it 
honor. 

It  did  not  strike  me  as  strange  that  Mr.  Belt  beguiled 
the  thirty-mile  journey  with  anecdote  and  disquisition. 
He  was  charming.  I  never  thought  that  he  was  likewise 
condescending.  I  am  quite  as  sure  that  the  idea  did  not 
enter  his  knightly  imagination. 

As  we  drove  leisurely  up  Main  Street  from  the  bridge, 
we  noticed  that  groups  of  men  stood  on  the  street  corners 
and  in  the  doors  of  stores,  chatting  gravely,  and,  it  would 
seem,  confidentially. 

"There  must  be  news  from  the  seat  of  war!"  opined  my 
companion. 

The  Mexican  War  was  then  in  progress,  and  accompany- 
ing raids  into  the  debatable  territory  of  Texas  kept  public 
sentiment  in  a  ferment. 

My  father  and  the  rest  of  the  family,  with  a  couple  of 
neighbors,  were  enjoying  the  cool  of  the  day  upon  our 
front  porch.  He  came  down  to  the  gate  to  assist  me  to 
alight.  So  did  Mr.  Strobia,  our  elderly  next-door  neigh- 
bor, and  he  handed  me  up  the  steps  while  my  father  lin- 
gered to  thank  my  escort  for  bringing  me  safely  home.  In 
the  joyous  confusion  of  greetings,  I  had  not  observed  that 
Mr.  Belt  was  leaning  down  from  the  carriage  to  my  father's 
ear,  and  that  both  were  very  grave,  until  Puss  Sheppard, 
like  the  rattlepate  she  was,  whispered  loudly  to  Mr.  Strobia: 

188 


THE    MENACE    OF    SLAVE    INSURRECTION 

"I'm  scared  to  death!  What  is  the  latest  news?  You 
men  won't  tell  us." 

"I  have  heard  no  news  about  anything  or  anybody!" 
ejaculated  the  old  gentleman,  testily  and  loudly,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder  at  Gilbert,  who  had  my  trunk  on  his 
shoulder  and  was  carrying  it  in  at  the  side-gate.  "Upon 
my  soul,  I  haven't!"  And  as  she  caught  his  arm  and  swung 
around  to  get  the  truth  from  his  eyes,  he  bustled  down  the 
steps  and  so  on  home. 

I  had  the  tale  in  full  by  the  time  my  bonnet  was  off. 
Mea,  on  one  side,  and  Puss  on  the  other,  poured  it  forth 
in  excited  whispers,  having  closed  "the  chamber"  door. 
Abolitionists  had  been  at  work  among  the  negroes  in  Hen- 
rico and  Hanover  counties  for  weeks.  There  were  indica- 
tions of  an  organized  conspiracy  (in  scope  and  detail  so  like 
the  plot  for  which  John  Brown's  blood  paid  twelve  years 
thereafter,  that  I  bethought  me  of  it  when  the  news  from 
Harper's  Ferry  stunned  the  nation),  and  the  city  was 
under  arms.  Governor  Smith  was  said  to  have  issued  a 
proclamation  to  militia  and  citizens  at  large  in  Latin. 

I  laughed  there. 

"'Extra  Billy!'  He  knows  less  of  Latin  than  of  Choc- 
taw!" 

The  worthy  functionary  had  earned  the  sobriquet  by 
superdiligence  in  the  matter  of  extra  baggage  while  in  the 
service  of  a  stage-coach  company,  and  as  he  was  a  Demo- 
crat we  never  forgot  it. 

"Let  that  pass!"  said  Mea,  impatiently.  "We  can't  get 
away  from  the  fact  that  where  there  is  so  much  smoke 
there  must  be  a  little  fire.  Some  evil  business  is  on  foot, 
and  all  the  servants  know  what  it  is,  whether  we  do  or  not." 

I  felt  that  she  was  right  when  Mary  Anne  and  "Mammy," 
Gilbert,  Tom,  his  assistant,  and  my  little  maid  Paulina, 
with  black  Molly,  Percy's  nurse,  trooped  in,  one  after  the 
other,  to  welcome  "Miss  Firginny"  home.    They  had  done 

189 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  like  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  should  have  felt  hurt  and 
angry  had  they  failed  in  the  ceremony.  My  sharpened 
senses  detected  something  that  was  overdone  in  manner 
and  speech.  They  were  too  glad  to  see  me,  and  while  they 
protested,  I  discerned  sarcasm  in  their  grins,  a  sinister  roll 
in  lively  eyeballs. 

We  talked  fast  over  the  supper-table,  and  of  all  manner 
of  things  irrelevant  to  the  topic  uppermost  in  our  thoughts. 
Once,  while  Gilbert  and  his  half-grown  subaltern  were  out 
of  the  room,  I  ventured  a  hasty  whisper  to  my  father,  at 
whose  right  I  sat: 

"Father,  have  we  any  arms  in  the  house  if  they  should 
come?" 

Without  turning  his  head,  he  saw,  out  of  the  tail  of  his 
eye,  Gilbert  on  the  threshold,  a  plate  of  hot  waffles  in  hand, 
and  Tom  at  his  heels  bearing  a  pitcher  of  fresh  water.  My 
father  reached  out  a  deliberate  hand  for  a  slice  of  bread 
from  a  plate  near  his  elbow. 

"All  that  I  have  to  say,  my  daughter"  (his  speech  as 
deliberate  as  his  hand,  and  every  syllable  sharp  and  clear), 
"is  that  we  are  prepared  for  them,  come  when  and  how 
they  may." 

A  perceptible  shiver,  as  when  one  catches  breath  after 
an  electric  shock,  ran  around  the  table.  All  felt  that  he 
had  thrown  down  the  gauntlet,  and  was  ready  to  take  the 
consequences.  My  heart  leaped  up  as  an  elastic  bough 
from  the  weight  that  had  bowed  it  to  the  earth.  It  was 
no  effort  after  that  to  be  gay.  I  told  stories  of  my  country 
sojourn,  retailed  the  humors  of  the  visit  to  our  old  neigh- 
borhood, mimicking  this  and  that  rustic,  telling  of  comical 
sayings  of  the  colored  people  who  pressed  me  with  queries 
as  to  town  life — in  short,  unbottled  a  store  of  fun  and 
gossip  that  lasted  until  bedtime.  Then,  as  I  told  my 
correspondent,  I  went  to  bed  and  slept  the  sleep  of  youth, 
health,  and  an  easy  mind. 

190 


THE    MENACE    OF    SLAVE    INSURRECTION 

And  this  because  he  who  never  lied  to  me  had  said  that 
he  was  "prepared"  for  the  assassins,  come  when  they 
might. 

A  week  later,  when  the  fireless  smoke  had  vanished  quite 
from  the  horizon,  and  we  dared  jest  at  the  "scare,"  I  asked 
my  mother  what  arsenal  my  father  had  had  in  reserve  that 
he  could  speak  so  confidently  of  preparation  for  midnight 
attack  and  domestic  treachery. 

"Nothing  more  formidable  than  a  carving-knife,"  she 
answered,  merrily,  "and  courage  that  has  always  served 
him  in  the  hour  of  peril.  He  was  not  alarmed.  I  believe 
he  would  face  a  hundred  negroes  with  no  other  weapon 
than  his  bare  hands." 

I  am  often  asked  why,  if  our  family  servants  were  really 
and  warmly  attached  to  us,  we  should  have  let  the  "bug- 
bear" poison  our  pleasures  and  haunt  our  midnight  visions. 
To  the  present  hour  I  am  conscious  of  a  peculiar  stricture 
of  the  heart  that  stops  my  breath  for  a  second,  at  the  sud- 
den blast  of  a  hunter's  horn  in  the  country.  Before  I  was 
eight  years  old  I  had  heard  the  tale  of  Gabriel's  projected 
insurrection,  and  of  the  bloodier  outbreak  of  murderous 
fury  led  by  Nat  Turner,  the  petted  favorite  of  a  trusting 
master.  Heard  that  the  signal  of  attack  in  both  cases 
was  to  be  "a  trumpet  blown  long  and  loud."  Again  and 
again,  on  my  visits  to  country  plantations,  I  have  been 
thrown  into  a  paroxysm  of  terror  when  awakened  from 
sleep  in  the  dead  of  night,  by  the  sound  of  the  horns  carried 
by  "coon  hunters"  in  their  rounds  of  the  woods  nearest  us. 
I  could  not  have  been  over  ten,  when,  on  a  visit  to  "Lethe," 
a  homestead  occupied  for  a  while  by  Uncle  Carus,  I  was 
rambling  in  the  garden  soon  after  sunrise,  picking  roses, 
and  let  them  fall  from  nerveless  fingers  at  the  ringing  blast 
of  a  "trumpet  blown  long  and  loud",  from  the  brow  of  a 
neighboring  hill.  As  it  pealed  louder  and  longer,  until  the 
blue  welkin  above  me  repeated  the  sound,  I  fled  as  fast 

191 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

as  my  freezing  feet  would  carry  me,  to  the  deepest  recesses 
of  the  graveyard  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  hid  in  a 
tangle  of  wild  raspberry  bushes  higher  than  my  head. 
There  I  lay,  wet  with  the  dews  of  the  past  night,  and  my 
face  and  hands  scratched  to  bleeding,  until  the  winding 
horn  grew  faint  and  fainter,  and  the  bay  of  a  pack  of  hounds 
told  me  what  a  fool  panic  had  made  of  me.  We  always 
thought  of  the  graveyard  as  an  asylum  in  the  event  of  a 
rising.  No  negro  would  venture  to  enter  it  by  day  or 
night. 

In  any  ordinary  period  of  danger  or  distress,  I  would 
have  trusted  my  life  in  the  hands  of  the  men  and  women 
who  had  been  born  on  the  same  plantation  with  my 
mother,  and  the  younger  generation,  to  whom  she  had  been 
a  faithful  and  benignant  friend  from  their  cradles.  In  fire 
and  flood  and  tempest;  in  good  report  and  evil  report;  in 
sickness  and  in  health ;  in  poverty,  as  in  riches — they  would 
have  stood  with,  and  for  us  to  the  death.  We  knew 
them  to  be  but  children  of  a  larger  growth,  passionate  and 
unreasoning,  facile  and  impulsive,  and  fanatical  beyond 
anything  conceivable  by  the  full-blooded  white.  The 
superstitious  savagery  their  ancestors  had  brought  from 
barbarous  and  benighted  Africa,  was  yet  in  their  veins. 
We  had  heard  how  Gabriel,  a  leader  in  prayer-meetings, 
and  encouraged  by  the  whites  to  do  Christian  evangeliza- 
tion among  his  own  race,  had  deliberately  meditated  and 
written  down,  as  sections  of  the  code  to  be  put  into  prac- 
tice, when  he  should  come  into  his  kingdom  of  Lower  Vir- 
ginia— a  plan  of  murder  of  all  male  whites,  and  a  partition 
of  the  women  and  girl-children  among  his  followers, 
together  with  arson  and  tortures  exceeding  the  deviltries 
of  the  red  Indians.  We  had  heard  from  the  lips  of  eye- 
witnesses, scenes  succeeding  the  Southampton  massacre  of 
every  white  within  the  reach  of  the  murderous  horde 
howling  at  the  heels  of  the  negro   preacher  whom  his 

192 


THE    MENACE    OF    SLAVE    INSURRECTION 

master  had  taught  to  read  and  write — how  the  first  victim 
of  the  uprising,  in  the  name  of  God  and  freedom,  was  that 
master  as  he  lay  asleep  at  his  wife's  side.  Of  how  coolly 
— even  complacently — Turner  recorded:  "He  sprang  up, 
calling  his  wife's  name.  It  was  his  last  word.  A  single 
blow  was  sufficient  to  kill  him.  We  forgot  a  baby  that 
was  asleep  in  the  cradle,  but  Hark  went  back  and  dis- 
patched it." 

In  every  plan  of  rising  against  their  masters,  Religion 
was  a  potent  element.  It  was,  to  their  excitable  im- 
aginations, a  veritable  Holy  War,  from  which  there  would 
be  no  discharge.  The  "Mammy"  who  had  nursed  her 
mistress's  baby  at  her  own  bosom,  would  brain  it,  with  the 
milk  yet  wet  upon  its  lips,  if  bidden  by  the  "prophet"  to 
make  the  sacrifice.  Nat  Turner  split  with  his  axe  the 
skull  of  a  boy  he  had  carried  in  his  arms  scores  of  times, 
and  stayed  not  his  hand,  although  the  little  fellow  met  him 
with  a  happy  laugh  and  outstretched  arms  and  the  cry, 
"Uncle  Nat,  you  have  come  to  give  me  a  ride!  Haven't 
you?" 

I  repeat,  we  knew  with  what  elements  we  should  have 
to  deal  if  the  "rising"  ever  took  an  organized  form.  This 
ever-present  knowledge  lay  at  the  root  of  the  hatred  of  the 
"abolition  movement."  To  the  Northerner,  dwelling  at 
ease  among  his  own  people,  it  was — except  to  the  leaders — 
an  abstract  principle.  "All  men  are  created  free  and 
equal" — a  slaveholder  had  written  before  his  Northern 
brother  emancipated  his  unprofitable  serfs.  Ergo,  rea- 
soned the  Northern  brother,  in  judicial  survey  of  the  in- 
creasing race,  whose  labor  was  still  gainful  to  tobacco  and 
wheat  planter,  the  negro  slave  had  a  right  to  "liberty  and 
the  pursuit  of  happiness." 

He  did  not  count  the  cost  of  a  consummation  devoutly 
to  be  desired.  He  had  no  occasion  to  meditate  upon  the 
bloody  steps  by  which  the  enslaved  and  alien  race  would 

193 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

climb  to  the  height  the  Abolitionist  would  stimulate  him 
to  attain. 

So  well  was  it  understood  that  a  mother  ran  dangerous 
risks  if  she  put  her  child  into  the  care  of  the  colored  woman 
who  complained  that  she  "was  tired  of  that  sort  of  work," 
that  neglect  of  such  dislike  of  a  nurse's  duties  was  considered 
foolhardy.  I  heard  a  good  old  lady,  who  owned  so  many 
servants  that  she  hired  a  dozen  or  so  to  her  neighbors, 
lament  that  Mrs.  Blank  "did  not  mind  what  I  told  her 
about  Frances'  determination  not  to  take  care  of  children. 
I  hired  the  girl  to  her  as  a  chambermaid,  and  gave  her  fair 
warning  that  she  just  would  not  be  a  nurse.  A  baby  was 
born  when  Frances  had  been  there  four  months,  and  she 
was  set  to  nurse  it.  You  must  have  heard  the  dreadful 
story?  Perhaps  you  saw  it  in  the  papers.  When  the  child 
was  six  months  old  the  wretched  creature  pounded  glass 
and  put  it  in  the  baby's  milk.  The  child  died,  and  the  girl 
was  hanged." 

Ugly  stories,  these,  but  so  true  in  every  particular  that 
I  cannot  leave  them  out  of  my  chronicle  of  real  life  and  the 
workings  of  what  we  never  thought,  then,  of  calling  "the 
peculiar  institution." 

One  of  my  most  distinct  recollections  of  the  discussions 
of  Slavery  held  in  my  hearing  is  that  my  saintly  Aunt 
Betsy  said,  sadly  and  thoughtfully: 

"One  thing  is  certain — we  will  have  to  pay  for  the  great 
sin  of  having  them  here.     How,  or  when,  God  alone  knows." 

"We  did  not  bring  them  to  Virginia!"  was  my  mother's 
answer.  "And  I,  for  one,  wish  they  were  all  back  in 
Africa.  But  what  can  we  do,  now  that  they  are  on  our 
hands?" 

Before  turning  to  other  and  pleasanter  themes,  let  me 
say  that  my  father,  after  consultation  with  the  wife  who 
had  brought  to  him  eight  or  ten  "family  servants"  as  part 
of  her  father's  estate,  resolved  to  free  them  and  send  them 

194 


THE   MENACE    OF    SLAVE    INSURRECTION 

to  Liberia  at  his  own  expense.  This  was  in  my  early  child- 
hood, yet  I  recollect  how  the  scheme  failed  through  the 
obstinate  refusal  of  the  slaves  to  leave  master,  home,  and 
country  for  freedom  in  a  strange  land.  They  clung  to  my 
mother's  knees,  and  prayed  her,  with  wild  weeping,  not  to 
let  them  go.  They  had  blood  relatives  and  dear  friends 
here;  their  children  had  intermarried  with  men  and  women 
in  different  parts  of  the  county;  their  grandfathers  and 
great-grandfathers  had  left  them  no  legacy  of  memories 
that  would  draw  them  toward  the  far-off  country  which  was 
but  the  echo  of  an  empty  name  to  their  descendants.  They 
were  comfortable  and  happy  here.  Why  send  them,  for 
no  fault  of  theirs,  into  exile? 

"There  is  something  in  what  they  say!"  my  father  had 
said  to  my  mother,  in  reviewing  the  scene.  "I  cannot  see 
that  anything  is  left  for  us  to  do  except  to  keep  on  as  we 
are,  and  wait  for  further  indications  of  the  Divine  will." 

This  was  in  the  thirties,  not  many  years  after  an 
act  of  gradual  emancipation  was  lost  in  the  Legislature  by 
the  pitiful  majority  I  named  in  an  earlier  paragraph.  A 
score  of  years  had  passed  since  that  momentous  debate  in 
our  capitol,  and  our  Urim  and  Thummin  had  not  signified 
that  we  could  do  anything  better  than  to  "keep  on  as  we 
were." 

It  would  be  idle  to  say  that  we  were  not,  from  time  to 
time,  aware  that  a  volcano  slumbered  fitfully  beneath  us. 
There  were  dark  sides  to  the  Slavery  Question,  for  master, 
as  for  slave. 

14 


XIX 

WEDDING    AND     BRIDESMAID — THE     ROUTINE     OF    A     LARGE 
FAMILY — MY   FIRST   BEREAVEMENT 

In  the  summer  of  1851,  my  grandmother  had  bought  and 
given  to  her  only  child  the  house  which  was  to  be  our  home 
as  long  as  we  remained  a  resident  family  in  Richmond. 
Of  this  house  I  shall  have  a  story  to  tell  in  the  next  chap- 
ter. It  stands  upon  Leigh  Street  (named  for  the  dis- 
tinguished lawyer  of  whom  we  have  heard  in  these  pages  as 
taking  a  part  in  the  Clay  campaign),  and  the  locality  was 
then  quietly,  but  eminently,  aristocratic.  There  were  few 
new  houses,  and  the  old  had  a  rural,  rather  than  an  urban, 
air.  Each  had  its  garden,  stocked  with  shrubbery  and  flow- 
ers. Some  had  encompassing  lawns  and  outlying  copses 
of  virgin  native  growth. 

The  new  home  held  a  large  family.  The  stately  old 
dame  who  had  settled  us  for  life,  occupied  a  sunny  front 
chamber,  and  in  addition  to  our  household  proper,  we 
had  had  with  us,  for  two  years,  my  mother's  widowed 
brother-in-law,  "Uncle"  Cams,  and  the  stepdaughter  for 
whose  sake  we  had  consented  to  receive  him.  My  aunt  had 
died  soon  after  her  youngest  child  (Anne)  was  taken  to  a 
Better  Country;  Cousin  Paulina  went  a  year  later,  and  as 
the  mother's  parting  request  to  the  eldest  of  her  flock 
was  that  she  would  "take  care  of  her  father,"  separation 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  None  of  us  loved  the  lonely 
old  man.  One  and  all,  we  loved  her  who  was  a  younger 
sister  to  our  mother,  and  a  second  mother  to  her  children. 

So  we  sat  down  to  our  meals  every  day,  a  full  dozen,  all 

196 


WEDDING    AND    BRIDESMAID 

told,  and  as  we  were  seldom  without  a  visitor,  we  must 
have  been  "thirteen  at  table",  times  without  number.  If 
we  had  ever  heard  the  absurd  superstition  that  would  have 
forbidden  it,  we  never  gave  it  a  thought.  I  should  not 
have  liked  to  meet  my  father's  frown  and  hear  his  com- 
ment, had  the  matter  been  broached  in  his  hearing. 

The  modern  (nominal)  mistress  would  be  horrified  at  the 
thought  of  twelve  eaters,  drinkers,  and  sleepers  under  the 
roof  of  a  private  house.  We  descried  nothing  out  of  the 
way  in  it,  and  fared  exceeding  comfortably  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end.  Large  families  were  still  respectable  in 
the  public  eye,  and  an  increase  in  the  number  of  domestics 
kept  the  addition  to  the  white  family  from  bearing  hard 
upon  the  housemother. 

How  gayly  and  smoothly  the  little  craft  of  my  life  moved 
on  up  to  the  middle  of  '53,  let  a  few  passages  from  a  letter 
dated  July  23d  of  that  year,  testify: 

"I  came  back  from  the  mountains  on  the  2d  of  this 
month.  I  had  a  charming  visit  at  Piedmont.  I  believe  I 
left  warm  friends  behind  me  when  I  reluctantly  said  'Good- 
bye' to  the  hospitable  abode.  I  was  the  only  young  lady  on 
the  plantation,  and  there  were  four  grown  brothers  and  a 
cousin  or  two.  Each  had  his  pet  riding-horse,  which  he  'must 
have  me  try.'  I  had  rides,  morning  and  evening,  and  once 
at  high  noon.  In  June!  Think  of  it!  I  won't  tell  you  which 
Rosinante  I  preferred.  You  might  have  a  notion  that  his 
master  shared  his  honors,  and  these  shrewd  guesses  are  in- 
convenient sometimes.  The  very  considerate  gallants  found 
out,  'by  the  merest  chance/  that  it  made  me  sick  to  ride  in  a 
closed  carriage,  and,  of  course,  as  there  were  two  buggies  on 
the  place,  there  was  'tall'  bidding  as  to  which  I  should  dis- 
tinguish by  accepting  a  seat  in  it.  Sarah  C.,  her  mother, 
and  sister  were  kindness  itself  to  me.  I  was  quite  ashamed 
of  my  un  worthiness  of  such  petting.  .  .  . 

"I  got  home  just  in  time  to  help  Mea  with  the  preparations 
for  her  Northern  trip,  and  to  get  ready  for  Sarah  Ragland's 

197 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wedding — an  event  that  had  its  influence  in  shaping  my  sum- 
mer plans. 

"We  enjoyed  the  'occasion'  heartily.  How  could  I  do 
otherwise  when  my  attendant  groomsman  was  ordered  for 
the  affair  from  Charlottesville? — the  very  youth  who  smote 
my  already  beriddled  heart  when  I  was  up  in  that  region. 
He  is  a  cousin  of  the  Raglands — Charley  Massie  by  name — and 
the  arrangement  was  Mary's  (bless  her  heart!).  Mr.  Bud- 
well,  the  bridegroom,  was  indisputably  the  handsomest  man 
in  the  room.  This  was  as  it  should  be;  but  I  never  attended 
another  wedding  where  this  could  be  said  with  truth.  My 
knight  was  the  next  best-looking,  and  for  once  I  was  content 
with  a  second-best  article." 

I  allude  in  this  letter  to  "Cousin  Mollie's"  illness,  but 
with  no  expression  of  anxiety  as  to  the  result.  She  had 
been  delicate  ever  since  I  could  recollect  anything.  She 
went  to  Saratoga  every  summer,  and  now  and  then  to 
Florida  in  the  winter.  The  only  intimation  I  ever  had 
from  her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  continued  singlehood  was 
in  answer  to  the  girlish  outburst:  "Cousin  Mary,  you  must 
have  been  beautiful  when  you  were  young!  You  will  al- 
ways be  charming.  I  can't  comprehend  why  you  have 
never  married!" 

Her  speech  was  ever  even  and  sweet.  I  detected  a  ring 
of  impatience  or  of  pain  in  it,  as  she  said:  "Why  should  I 
marry,  Namesake?    To  get  a  nurse  for  life?" 

I  had  suspected  all  along  that  she  had  a  history  known 
to  none  of  us.  After  that  I  knew  it,  and  asked  no  more 
questions. 

Patient,  brave,  unselfishly  heroic — 

"The  sweetest  soul 
That  ever  looked  with  human  eyes," 

— she  lingered  day  after  day,  now  weaker,  now  rallying, 
until  she  spoke  her  own  conviction  to  me  one  day  in  late 

198 


THE  ROUTINE  OF  A  LARGE  FAMILY 

July,  as  I  sat  by,  fanning  her,  and  no  one  else  was  pres- 
ent. 

I  smiled  as  she  opened  her  large  dark  eyes,  the  only 
beauty  left  in  the  wasted  face,  and  saw  me. 

"You  are  better,  dear!  We  shall  have  you  up  and  out 
driving  before  long." 

"No,  dear  child!" — infinite  weariness  in  tone  and  look. 
"The  old  clock  has  run  clean  down!" 

I  did  not  believe  it,  and  I  said  it  stoutly  aloud,  and  to 
myself. 

She  seemed  no  more  languid — only  drowsy — the  next 
afternoon,  as  I  fluttered  into  the  room  and  leaned  over  her 
in  a  glow  of  excitement: 

"Cousin  Mollie,  darling!  I  have  come  in  to  say  that 
Junius  Fishburn  is  down-stairs.  He  is  in  town  for  a  day 
on  his  way  to  Newport." 

The  great  eyes  opened  wide,  a  smile  lighted  them  into 
liveliness. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!"  she  gasped. 

She  was  "glad"  of  everything  that  gave  me  pleasure.  I 
had  never  doubted  that.  I  had  never  gone  to  her  with  a 
pain  or  a  pleasure  without  getting  my  greedy  fill  of  sym- 
pathy. 

When  I  had  said  a  hearty  "bon  voyage !  "  to  my  caller,  I 
went  back  to  tell  her  of  the  interview.  She  was  dying. 
We  watched  by  her  from  evening  to  morning  twilight. 

Ned  Rhodes,  who  was  in  Boston  when  he  got  my  letter, 
telling  briefly  what  had  come  to  us,  sent  me  lines  I  read 
then  for  the  first  time.  Had  the  writer  shared  that  vigil 
with  us,  he  could  not  have  described  it  more  vividly: 

"We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 
199 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears; 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied: 
We  thought  her  dying  while  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died." 

At  midnight  there  was  a  rally  for  a  few  minutes.  I  was 
wetting  the  dry  lips,  leaning  over  the  pillow,  so  that  she 
looked  into  my  eyes  in  unclosing  hers.  A  smile  of  heavenly 
sweetness  played  over  her  face — a  ray  that  irradiated,  with- 
out moving  a  feature  or  line.  The  poor  mouth  stirred  ever 
so  slightly.     I  bent  closer  to  it  to  hear  the  whisper: 

"I'm  almost  there!" 

Two  months  later  I  wrote  to  my  old  friend : 

"Our  great  sorrow  in  July  was  my  first  affliction.  Yet  I 
was  wonderfully  supported  under  it,  and  the  terrible  desolation 
that  has  grown  upon  us,  instead  of  lessening.  I  say  'sup- 
ported,' for  not  once  have  I  wished  her  back;  but  I  miss  her 
— oh,  so  sadly! 

"'I  cannot  make  her  dead!' 

"Then  mother  went  to  the  country  for  a  month,  and  I 
was  left  as  housekeeper,  with  the  whole  care  of  the  family 
on  my  hands.  Rising  betimes  to  preside  at  father's  early 
breakfast,  pickling,  preserving,  sewing,  overseeing  the  ser- 
vants, etcetera. 

"Enough  of  this!  Although  the  little  girls'  lessons  begin 
again  to-day,  and  I  have  my  sister's  domestic  and  social  duties 
to  perform  in  addition  to  my  own,  I  have  more  leisure  than 
you  might  think,  and  you  shall  have  the  benefit  of  a  spare 
half-hour  on  this  bright  Monday  morning.  (Alice  practising, 
meanwhile,  in  the  same  room!) 

"Mea  is  still  in  Boston  and  the  vicinity,  and  will  not  return 
for  a  month  or  more.  Lizzie  M.  is  to  be  married  late  in  Octo- 
ber or  early  in  November,  and  wishes  to  have  Mea  with  her. 
Another  of  the  three  Lizzies,  and  the  prettiest — Lizzie  N. — 
married  last  week  a  Mr.  L. — a  nice  young  man,  Mea  says.  I 
have  never  seen  him,  although  they  have  been  engaged  for 

200 


MY    FIRST    BEREAVEMENT 

some  time.  He  has  taken  up  his  abode  in  Boston,  to  keep  his 
lovely  wife  with  her  invalid  mother. 

"And  while  upon  marriage — E.  G.  is  to  wed  on  October 
11th,  Mr.  R.  H.,  one  of  ten  brothers.  She  is  'doing  very 
well,'  say  the  gossips. 

"Sarah  and  Mr.  Budwell  are  at  home  again,  he  handsomer 
than  ever,  while  she  looks  prettier  and  happier  than  she  ever 
was  before. 

"While  retailing  news,  let  me  chronicle  the  arrival  of  Master 
Robert  Wallace  Courtney,  an  interesting  youth,  who — as  father 
dryly  remarked,  when  I  said  that  he  'came  from  a  foreign 
shore' — 'speaks  the  language  of  the  Cry-mea.' 

"Heigho!  so  goes  this  mad  world  of  ours:  death;  marriage; 
birth.  Ranks  are  mowed  down,  and  filled  up  as  soon.  Few 
of  us  appreciate  what  a  fearful  thing  it  is  to  die,  and  fewer 
yet  how  awful  it  is  to  live — writing  our  histories  by  our  actions 
in  the  Book  of  God's  Remembrance,  a  stroke  for  every  word, 
movement,  and  thought!  Again  I  say,  if  Death  be  fearful, 
Life  is  awful! 

"We  are  prone  to  forget,  as  one  and  another  fall,  and  the 
chasm  is  closed  up  and  Life  seems  the  same — except  within 
the  bleeding  hearts  of  mourners — that  our  day  is  coming  as 
surely  as  those  others  have  gone.  In  effect,  we  arrogate  im- 
mortality for  ourselves. 

"The  longer  I  live,  and  the  more  I  see  of  the  things  that 
perish  with  the  using,  the  more  firmly  persuaded  am  I  that 
there  is  but  one  reality  in  life,  and  that  is  Religion.  Why  not 
make  it  an  every-day  business?  Since  the  loving  care  of  the 
Father  is  the  only  thing  that  may  not  be  taken  from  us,  why 
do  we  not  look  to  it  for  every  joy,  and  cling  to  it  for  every 
comfort?  .  .  . 

"Write  soon.  Will  you  not  come  to  me ?  I  am  very  lonely 
at  times.     One  sister  gone!    Another  absent! 

"I  am  wondering  if  you  have  changed  as  much  as  I  feel 
that  I  have?  It  is  not  natural  to  suppose  that  you  have. 
You  have  not  the  same  impression  of  added  responsibility, 
the  emulation  to  throw  yourself  into  the  breach  made  by  the 
removal  of  one  so  beloved,  and,  in  her  quiet  way,  exercising 

201 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

so  much  influence.     If  I  could  but  hope  that  patience  and 
prayerful  watchfulness  would  ever  make  me  'altogether  such 

an  one'  as  she  was! 

-How  many  and  how  happy  have  been  the  meetings  m 
heaven  since  I  last  saw  you!  Dear  little  Sallie  B.  !  How 
often  in  fancy  do  I  see  her  walk  away  in  the  moonhght  night 
of  our  parting!  I  never  look  from  the  front  window  in  the 
evening  without  recalling  that  hour." 


XX 

OUR  TRUE  FAMILY  GHOST-STORY 

One  evening  of  the  winter  following  the  events  recorded 
in  the  last  chapter,  "Ned"  Rhodes  and  I  had  spent  a  cosey 
two  hours  together.  My  parents  never  did  chaperon  duty, 
in  the  modern  acceptation  of  the  word.  They  made  a 
habit,  without  hinting  at  it  as  a  duty,  of  knowing  per- 
sonally every  man  who  called  upon  us.  When,  as  in  the 
present  case,  and  it  was  a  common  one,  the  visitor  was 
well  known  to  them,  and  they  liked  him,  both  of  them  came 
into  the  drawing-room,  sat  for  a  half-hour  or  longer,  as  the 
spirit  moved  them,  then  slipped  out,  separately,  to  their 
own  sitting-room  and  books. 

I  have  drawn  Ned  Rhodes's  picture  at  length  as  "Char- 
ley" in  Alone.  I  will  only  say  here  that  he  was  my  firm 
and  leal  friend  from  the  time  I  was  twelve  years  old 
to  the  time  of  his  death,  in  the  early  eighties. 

He  had  a  piece  of  new  music  for  me  to-night,  and  we  fell 
to  work  with  piano  and  flute  soon  after  my  father's  exit. 
It  was  not  difficult.  The  songs  and  duets  that  followed 
were  familiar  to  us  both.  We  chatted  by  the  glowing  grate 
when  we  left  the  piano — gayly  and  lightly,  of  nothing  in 
particular — the  inconsequent  gossip  of  two  old  and  inti- 
mate acquaintances  that  called  for  no  effort  from  either. 

I  mention  this  to  show  that  I  carried  a  careless  spirit 
and  a  light  heart  with  me,  as  I  went  off  in  the  direction  of 
my  bedroom,  having  extinguished  the  hanging  lamp  in  the 
hall,  and  taking  one  of  the  lamps  from  the  parlor  to  light 
myself  bedward. 

203 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

It  was  a  big,  square  Colonial  house,  with  much  waste  of 
space  in  the  matter  of  halls  and  passages.  The  entrance- 
hall  on  the  first  floor  was  virtually  a  reception-room,  and 
nearly  as  large  as  any  apartment  on  that  level.  It  was  cut 
across  the  left  side  by  an  archway,  filled  with  Venetian 
blinds  and  door.  Beyond  these  was  a  broad,  easy  stair- 
way, dropping,  by  a  succession  of  landings,  to  the  lower 
from  the  upper  story.  Directly  opposite  the  front  door 
was  a  second  and  narrower  arch,  the  door  in  which  was, 
likewise,  of  Venetian  slats.  This  led  to  the  rooms  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  The  plan  of  the  second  floor  was  the 
same.  On  this  eventful  night  I  passed  through  the  smaller 
archway,  closing  the  door  behind  me.  It  had  a  spring 
latch  that  clicked  into  place  as  I  swung  it  to.  The  bed- 
room I  shared  with  my  sister,  who  was  not  at  home  that 
night,  was  directly  across  the  passage  from  that  occupied 
by  our  parents.  A  line  of  light  under  their  door  proved 
that  they  were  still  up,  and  I  knocked. 

"Come  in!"  called  both,  in  unison. 

My  mother,  wrapped  in  her  dressing-gown,  lay  back  in 
her  rocking-chair,  her  book  closed  upon  her  finger.  My 
father  had  laid  aside  his  coat,  and  stood  on  the  rug,  winding 
his  watch. 

"I  was  hoping  that  you  would  look  in,"  he  said.  "1 
wanted  to  ask  what  that  new  piano-and-flute  piece  is.  I 
like  it!" 

We  exchanged  a  few  sentences  on  the  subject;  I  kissed 
both  good-night,  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  humming,  as 
I  went,  the  air  that  had  caught  his  fancy. 

The  lamp  in  my  hand  had  two  strong  burners.  Gas  had 
not  then  been  introduced  into  private  dwellings  in  Rich- 
mond. We  used  what  was  sold  as  "burning  fluid,"  in  il- 
luminating our  houses — something  less  gross  than  camphene 
or  oil,  and  giving  more  light  than  either.  I  carried  the 
lamp  in  front  of  me,  so  that  it  threw  a  bright  light  upon 

204 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

the  door  across  the  passage,  here  a  little  over  six  feet  wide. 
As  I  shut  the  door  of  my  mother's  room,  I  saw,  as  distinctly 
as  if  by  daylight,  a  small  woman  in  gray  start  out  of 
the  opposite  door,  glide  noiselessly  along  the  wall,  and  dis- 
appear at  the  Venetian  blinds  giving  upon  the  big  front  hall. 

I  have  reviewed  that  moment  and  its  incident  a  thousand 
times,  in  the  effort  to  persuade  myself  that  the  apparition 
was  an  optical  illusion  or  a  trick  of  fancy. 

The  thousandth-and-first  attempt  results  as  did  the  first. 
I  shut  my  eyes  to  see — always  the  one  figure,  the  same 
motion,  the  same  disappearance. 

She  was  dressed  in  gray;  she  was  small  and  lithe;  her 
head  was  bowed  upon  her  hands,  and  she  slipped  away, 
hugging  the  wall,  as  in  flight,  vanishing  at  the  closed  door. 
The  door  I  had  heard  latch  itself  five  minutes  ago !  Which 
did  not  open  to  let  her  through!  I  recall,  as  clearly  as  I 
see  the  apparition,  what  I  thought  in  the  few  seconds  that 
flew  by  as  I  stood  to  watch  her.  I  was  not  in  the  least 
frightened  at  first.  My  young  maid,  Paulina,  a  bright 
mulatto  of  fifteen,  had  more  than  once  that  winter  fallen 
asleep  upon  the  rug  before  my  fire,  when  she  went  into  the 
room  to  see  that  all  was  in  readiness  for  my  retiring.  The 
servants  slept  in  buildings  detached  from  the  main  resi- 
dence, a  custom  to  which  I  have  referred  before. 

"The  house"  was  locked  up  by  my  father's  own  hands 
at  ten  o'clock,  unless  there  were  some  function  to  keep  one 
or  more  of  the  servants  up  and  on  duty.  Therefore,  when 
I  had  twice  awakened  Paulina  from  her  unlawful  slumber, 
I  had  sent  her  off  to  the  "offices" — in  English  parlance — 
with  a  sharp  reproof  and  warning  against  a  repetition  of 
the  offence.     My  instant  thought  now  was: 

"The  little  minx  has  been  at  it  again!"  The  next,  "She 
went  like  a  cat!"  The  third,  in  a  lightning  flash,  "She  did 
not  open  the  door  to  go  through!"  Finally — "Nor  did 
she  open  the  door  when  she  came  out  of  my  room!" 

205 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  had  never,  up  to  that  instant,  known  one  thrill  of 
supernatural  dread  since  I  was  old  enough  to  give  full 
credence  to  my  father's  assurances  that  there  were  no 
such  things  as  ghosts,  and  to  laugh  at  the  tales  told  by 
ignorant  negroes  to  frighten  one  another,  and  to  awe  white 
children.  I  had  never  been  afraid  of  the  darkness  or  of 
solitude.  I  would  take  my  doll  and  book  to  the  grave- 
yard and  spend  whole  happy  afternoons  there,  because  it 
was  quiet  and  shady,  and  nobody  would  interrupt  study 
or  dream. 

It  was,  then,  the  stress  of  extraordinary  emotion  which 
swept  me  back  into  the  room  I  had  just  quitted,  and  bore 
me  up  to  the  table  by  which  my  mother  sat,  there  to  set 
down  the  lamp  I  could  scarcely  hold,  enunciating  hoarsely : 

"I  have  seen  a  ghost!" 

My  father  wheeled  sharply  about. 

"What!" 

At  that  supreme  moment,  the  influence  of  his  scornful 
dislike  to  every  species  of  superstition  made  me  "hedge," 
and  falter,  in  articulating,  "If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a 
ghost,  I  have  seen  one!" 

Before  I  could  utter  another  sound  he  had  caught  up 
the  lamp  and  was  gone.  Excited,  and  almost  blind  and 
dumb  as  I  was,  I  experienced  a  new  sinking  of  heart  as  I 
heard  him  draw  back  the  bolt  of  the  door  through  which 
the  Thing  had  passed,  without  unclosing  it.  He  explored 
the  whole  house,  my  mother  and  I  sitting,  silent,  and  listen- 
ing to  his  swift  tramp  upon  floor  and  stairs.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  search  was  over. 

He  was  perfectly  calm  in  returning  to  us. 

"There  is  nobody  in  the  house  who  has  not  a  right  to  be 
here.     And  nobody  awake  except  ourselves." 

Setting  down  the  lamp,  he  put  his  hand  on  my  head — 
his  own,  and  almost  only,  form  of  caress. 

"  Now,  daughter,  try  and  tell  us  what  you  think  you  saw?" 

206 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

Grateful  for  the  unlooked-for  gentleness,  I  rallied  to 
tell  the  story  simply  and  without  excitement.  When  I 
had  finished,  he  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  I  looked 
up  timidly. 

"I  really  saw  it,  father,  just  as  I  have  said!  At  least, 
I  believe  I  did!" 

"I  know  it,  my  child.  But  we  will  talk  no  more  of  it 
to-night.     I  will  go  to  your  room  with  you." 

He  preceded  me  with  the  lamp.  When  we  were  in  my 
chamber,  he  looked  under  the  bed  (how  did  he  guess  that 
I  should  do  it  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  if  he  had  not?). 
Then  he  carried  the  light  into  the  small  dressing-room 
behind  the  chamber.  I  heard  him  open  the  doors  of  a 
wardrobe  that  stood  there,  and  try  the  fastenings  of  a 
window. 

"There  is  nothing  to  harm  you  here,"  he  said,  coming 
back,  and  speaking  as  gently  as  before.  "Now,  try  not 
to  think  of  what  you  believe  you  saw.  Say  your  prayers 
and  go  to  bed,  like  a  good,  brave  girl!" 

He  kissed  me  again,  putting  his  arm  around  me  and, 
holding  me  to  him  tenderly,  said  "Good-night,"  and  went 
out. 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  fright — heartily  ashamed!  Yet  I 
was  afraid  to  look  in  the  mirror  while  I  undid  and  combed 
my  hair  and  put  on  my  night-cap.  When,  at  last,  I  dared 
put  out  the  light,  I  scurried  across  the  floor,  plunged  into 
bed,  and  drew  the  blankets  tightly  over  my  head. 

My  father  looked  sympathizingly  at  my  heavy  eyes 
next  morning  when  I  came  down  to  prayers.  After  break- 
fast he  took  me  aside  and  told  me  to  keep  what  I  had 
seen  to  myself. 

"  Neither  your  mother  nor  I  will  speak  of  it  in  the  hear- 
ing of  the  children  and  servants.  You  may,  of  course, 
take  your  sister  into  your  confidence.  She  may  be  trusted. 
But  my  opinion  is  that  the  fewer  who  know  of  a  thing  that 

207 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

seems  unaccountable,  the  better.  And  your  sister  is  more 
nervous  than  you." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  nothing  was  said  to  Mea,  and 
that  we  three  who  knew  of  the  visitation  did  not  discuss  it, 
and  tried  honestly  not  to  think  of  it. 

Until,  perhaps  a  month  after  my  fright,  about  nine  o'clock, 
one  wet  night,  my  mother  entered  the  chamber  where  my 
father  and  I  were  talking  over  political  news,  as  we  still 
had  a  habit  of  doing,  and  said,  hurriedly,  glancing  nerv- 
ously behind  her: 

"I  have  seen  Virginia's  ghost!" 

She  saw  it,  just  as  I  had  described,  issuing  from  the 
closed  door  and  gliding  away  close  to  the  wall,  then  vanish- 
ing at  the  Venetian  door. 

"It  was  all  in  gray,"  she  reported,  "but  with  something 
white  wrapped  about  the  head.     It  is  very  strange!" 

Still  we  held  our  peace.  My  father's  will  was  law,  and 
he  counselled  discretion. 

"We  will  await  further  developments,"  he  said,  orac- 
ularly. 

Looking  back,  I  think  it  strange  that  the  example  of 
his  cool  fearlessness  so  far  wrought  upon  me  that  I  would 
not  allow  the  mystery  to  prey  upon  my  spirits,  or  to  make 
me  afraid  to  go  about  the  house  as  I  had  been  wont  to  do. 
Once  my  father  broke  the  reserve  we  maintained,  even  to 
each  other,  by  asking  if  I  would  like  to  exchange  my 
sleeping-room  for  another. 

"Why  should  I?"  I  interrogated,  trying  to  laugh.  "We 
are  not  sure  where  she  goes  after  she  leaves  it.  It  is  some- 
thing to  know  that  she  is  no  longer  there." 

Mea  had  to  be  taken  into  confidence  after  she  burst 
into  the  drawing-room  at  twilight,  one  evening,  and  shut 
the  door,  setting  her  back  against  it  and  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  She  was  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  when  she 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  whisper.     Something  had  chased  her 

208 


OUR   TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

down-stairs,  she  declared.  The  hall-lamp  was  burning, 
and  she  could  see,  by  looking  over  her  shoulder,  that  the 
halls  and  stairs  were  empty  but  for  her  terrified  self.  But 
Something — Somebody — in  high-heeled  shoes,  that  went 
"Tap!  tap!  tap!"  on  the  oaken  floor  and  staircase,  was 
behind  her  from  the  time  she  left  the  upper  chamber  where 
she  had  been  dressing,  until  she  reached  the  parlor  door. 
Her  nerves  were  not  as  stout  as  mine,  perhaps,  but  she 
was  no  coward,  and  she  was  not  given  to  foolish  imagina- 
tions. When  we  told  her  what  had  been  seen,  she  took  a 
more  philosophical  view  of  the  situation  than  I  was  able 
to  do. 

"Bodiless  things  can't  hurt  bodies!"  she  opined,  and 
readily  joined  our  secret  circle. 

Were  we,  as  a  family,  as  I  heard  a  woman  say  when  we 
were  not  panic-stricken  at  the  rumored  approach  of  yellow- 
fever,  "a  queer  lot,  taken  altogether"?  I  think  so,  some- 
times. 

The  crisis  came  in  February  of  that  same  winter. 

My  sister  Alice  and  a  young  cousin  who  was  near  her 
age — fourteen — were  sent  off  to  bed  a  little  after  nine  one 
evening,  that  they  might  get  plenty  of  "beauty  sleep." 
Passing  the  drawing-room  door,  which  was  ajar,  they  were 
tempted  to  enter  by  the  red  gleam  of  the  blazing  fire  of  soft 
coal.  Nobody  else  was  there  to  enjoy  it,  and  they  sat  them 
down  for  a  school-girlish  talk,  prolonged  until  the  far-off 
cry  "All's  well!"  of  the  sentinel  at  the  "Barrack"  on 
Capitol  Square  told  the  conscience  -  smitten  pair  that  it 
was  ten  o'clock.  Going  into  the  hall,  they  were  surprised 
to  find  it  dark.  We  found  afterward  that  the  servant 
whose  duty  it  was  to  fill  the  lamp  had  neglected  it,  and  it 
had  burned  out.  It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  and 
the  great  window  on  the  lower  landing  of  the  staircase  was 
unshuttered.  The  arched  door  dividing  the  two  halls  was 
open,  and  from  the  doorway  of  the  parlor  they  had  a  full 

209 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

view  of  the  stairs.  The  moonbeams  flooded  it  half-way 
up  to  the  upper  landing;  and  from  the  dark  hall  they  saw 
a  white  figure  moving  slowly  down  the  steps.  The  mis- 
chievous pair  instantly  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  one 
of  "the  boys" — my  brothers — was  on  his  way,  en  deshabille, 
to  get  a  drink  of  water  from  the  pitcher  that  always  stood 
on  a  table  in  the  reception-room,  or  main  hall.  To  get  it, 
he  must  pass  within  a  few  feet  of  them,  and  they  shrank 
back  into  the  embrasure  of  the  door  behind  them,  pinching 
each  other  in  wicked  glee  to  think  how  they  would  tease 
the  boy  about  the  prank  next  morning.  Down  the  stairs  it 
moved,  without  sound,  and  slowly,  the  concealed  watchers 
imagined,  listening  for  any  movement  that  might  make 
retreat  expedient.  They  said,  afterward,  that  his  night- 
gown trailed  on  the  stairs,  also  that  he  might  have  had 
something  white  cast  over  his  head.  These  things  did  not 
strike  them  as  singular  while  they  watched  his  progress, 
so  full  were  they  of  the  fun  of  the  adventure. 

It  crossed  the  moonlit  landing — an  unbroken  sheet  of 
light — and  stepped,  yet  more  slowly,  from  stair  to  stair  of 
the  four  that  composed  the  lowermost  flight.  It  was  on 
the  floor  and  almost  within  the  archway  when  the  front 
door  opened  suddenly  and  in  walked  the  boys,  who  had 
been  out  for  a  stroll. 

In  a  quarter-second  the  apparition  was  gone.  As  Alice 
phrased  it: 

"It  did  not  go  backward  or  forward.  It  did  not  sink 
into  the  floor.     It  just  was  not!" 

With  wild  screams  the  girls  threw  themselves  upon  the 
astonished  boys,  and  sobbed  out  the  story.  In  the  full 
persuasion  that  a  trick  had  been  played  upon  the  frightened 
children,  the  brothers  rushed  up-stairs  and  made  a  search 
of  the  premises.  The  hubbub  called  every  grown  member 
of  the  household  to  the  spot  except  our  deaf  grandmother, 
who  was  fast  asleep  in  her  bed  up-stairs. 

210 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

Assuming  the  command  which  was  his  right,  my  father 
ordered  all  hands  to  bed  so  authoritatively  that  none  vent- 
ured to  gainsay  the  edict.  In  the  morning  he  made  light 
to  the  girls  and  boys  of  the  whole  affair,  fairly  laughing  it 
out  of  court,  and,  breakfast  over,  sent  them  off  to  school 
and  academy.  Then  he  summoned  our  mother,  my  sister, 
and  myself  to  a  private  conference  in  "the  chamber." 

He  began  business  without  preliminaries.  Standing  on 
the  rug,  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  hands  behind  him,  in  genuine 
English-squirely  style,  he  said,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall 
his  words: 

"It  is  useless  to  try  to  hide  from  ourselves  any  longer 
that  there  is  something  wrong  with  this  house.  I  have 
known  it  for  a  year  and  more.  In  fact,  we  had  not  lived 
here  three  months  before  I  was  made  aware  that  some 
mystery  hung  about  it. 

"One  windy  November  night  I  had  gone  to  bed  as  usual, 
before  your  mother  finished  her  book." 

He  glanced  smilingly  at  her.  Her  proclivity  for  reading 
into  the  small  hours  was  a  family  joke. 

"It  was  a  stormy  night,  as  I  said,  and  I  lay  with  closed 
eyes,  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  thinking  over 
next  day's  business,  when  somebody  touched  my  feet. 
Somebody — not  something !  Hands  were  laid  lightly  upon 
them,  were  lifted  and  laid  in  the  same  way  upon  my  knees, 
and  so  on  until  they  rested  more  heavily  on  my  chest,  and 
I  felt  that  some  one  was  looking  into  my  face.  Up  to  that 
moment  I  had  not  a  doubt  that  it  was  your  mother.  Like 
the  careful  wife  she  is,  she  was  arranging  the  covers  over 
me  to  keep  out  stray  draughts.  So,  when  she  bent  to  look 
into  my  face,  I  opened  my  eyes  to  thank  her. 

"She  was  not  there!  I  was  gazing  into  the  empty  air. 
The  pressure  was  removed  as  soon  as  I  lifted  my  eyelids. 
I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  and  looked  toward  the  fire- 
place. Your  mother  was  deep  in  her  book,  her  back  tow- 
15  211 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ard  me.  I  turned  over  without  sound,  and  looked  under 
the  bed  from  the  side  next  the  wall.  The  firelight  and 
lamplight  shone  through,  unobstructed. 

"I  speak  of  this  now  for  the  first  time.  I  have  never 
opened  my  lips  about  it,  even  to  your  mother,  until  this 
moment.  But  it  has  happened  to  me,  not  once,  nor  twice, 
nor  twenty — but  fifty  times — maybe  more.  It  is  always 
the  same  thing.  The  hands — I  have  settled  in  my  mind 
that  they  are  those  of  a  small  woman  or  of  a  child,  they 
are  so  little  and  light — are  laid  on  my  feet,  then  on  my 
knees,  and  travel  upward  to  my  chest.  There  they  rest 
for  a  few  seconds,  sometimes  for  a  whole  minute — I  have 
timed  them — and  something  looks  into  my  face  and  is 
gone! 

"How  do  I  account  for  it?  I  don't  account  for  it  at  all! 
I  know  that  it  is!  That  is  all.  Shakespeare  said,  long  be- 
fore I  was  born,  that  'there  are  more  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy.'  This  is 
one  of  them.  You  can  see,  now,  daughter" — turning  to 
me — "why  I  was  not  incredulous  when  you  brought  your 
ghost  upon  the  scene.  I  have  been  on  the  lookout  for 
what  our  spiritualistic  friends  call '  further  manifestations.' " 

"You  believe,  then,"  Mea  broke  in,  "that  the  girls  really 
saw  something  supernatural  on  the  stairs  last  night?  That 
it  was  not  a  trick  of  moonlight  and  imagination?" 

"  If  we  can  make  them  think  so,  it  will  be  better  for  them 
than  to  fill  their  little  brains  with  ghostly  fears.  That  was 
the  reason  I  took  a  jesting  tone  at  breakfast-time.  I 
charged  them,  on  the  penalty  of  being  the  laughing-stock 
of  all  of  us,  not  to  speak  of  it  to  any  one  except  ourselves. 
I  wish  you  all  to  take  the  cue.  Moreover,  and  above  every- 
thing else,  don't  let  the  servants  get  hold  of  it.  There 
would  be  no  living  in  the  house  with  them,  if  they  were  to 
catch  the  idea  that  it  is  'haunted.'" 

He  drew  his  brows  into  the  horseshoe  frown  that  meant 

212 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

annoyance  and  perplexity.  "  How  I  hate  the  word !  You 
girls  are  old  enough  to  understand  that  the  value  of  this 
property  would  be  destroyed  were  this  story  to  creep 
abroad.  I  would  better  burn  the  house  down  at  once 
than  to  attempt  to  sell  it  at  any  time  within  the  next  fifty 
years  with  a  ghost-tale  tagged  to  it. 

"Now,  here  lies  the  case!  We  can  talk  to  outsiders  of 
what  we  have  seen  and  felt  and  heard  in  this,  our  home, 
where  your  grandmother,  your  mother  and  father  have 
hoped  to  live  comfortably  and  to  die  in  peace,  or  we  can 
keep  our  own  counsel  like  sensible,  brave  Christians. 
'Bodiless  spirits  cannot  hurt  bodies,'  and" — the  frown 
passing  before  a  humorous  gleam — "the  little  gray  lady 
seems  to  be  amiable  enough.  I  can  testify  that  her  hands 
are  light,  and  that  they  pet,  not  strike.  She  is  timid,  too. 
What  do  you  say — all  of  you?    Can  we  hold  our  tongues?" 

We  promised  in  one  voice.  We  kept  the  pledge  so  well 
that  both  the  girls  and  the  boys  were  convinced  of  our 
incredulity.  Our  father  forbade  them  positively  to  drop 
a  hint  of  their  foolish  fancies  in  the  hearing  of  the  servants. 
Young  as  they  were,  they  knew  what  stigma  would  attach 
to  a  haunted  house  in  the  community.  As  time  passed, 
the  incident  faded  from  their  minds.  It  was  never  men- 
tioned in  their  hearing. 

A  year  went  by  without  further  demonstration  on  the 
part  of  the  little  gray  lady,  except  for  two  nocturnal  visita- 
tions of  the  small,  caressing  hands.  My  father  admitted 
this  when  we  questioned  him  on  the  subject;  but  he  would 
not  talk  of  it. 

The  one  comic  element  connected  with  the  bodiless  visit- 
ant was  introduced,  oddly  enough,  by  our  sanctimonious 
clerical  uncle-in-law,  who  now  and  then  paid  us  visits  of 
varying  lengths.  As  he  came  unannounced,  it  was  not  in- 
variably convenient  to  receive  him.  On  one  occasion  his 
appearance   caused   dismay   akin   to   consternation.     We 

213 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  expecting  a  houseful  of  younger  friends  within  two 
days,  and  needed  the  guest-room  he  must  occupy.  He  was 
good  for  a  week  at  the  shortest. 

True  to  the  Arab-like  traditions  of  hospitality  that  per- 
vaded all  ranks  of  Old  Dominion  society,  we  suffered  noth- 
ing of  this  to  appear  in  our  behavior.  Nor  could  he  have 
heard  the  anguished  discussion  of  ways  and  means  that 
went  on  between  Mea  and  myself  late  that  night.  It  was, 
therefore,  a  delightful  surprise  when  he  announced,  next 
morning,  his  intention  of  going  out  to  Olney  that  day,  and 
to  remain  there  for — perhaps  a  week.  He  "had  let  too 
long  a  time  elapse  since  he  had  paid  the  good  people  there 
a  visit.  He  didn't  want  them  to  think  he  had  forgotten 
them." 

One  of  the  "good  people,"  the  wife  of  my  mother's 
brother,  drove  into  town  to  spend  the  day  with  us,  a  week 
after  the  close  of  his  stay  at  Olney.  "Aunt  Sue"  was  a 
prime  favorite  with  us  all,  and  she  was  in  fine  feather  to-day, 
full  of  fun  and  anecdote.  She  interrupted  a  spicy  bit  of 
family  news  to  say,  by-and-by : 

"Did  any  of  you  ever  suspect  that  your  house  is 
haunted?" 

"How  ridiculous!"  laughed  my  mother.  "Why  do  you 
ask?" 

The  narrator  laughed  yet  more  merrily. 

"The  funniest  thing  you  ever  heard !  The  old  gentleman 
had  an  awful  scare  the  last  night  he  was  here.  I  asked 
him  what  he  had  eaten — and  drunk — for  supper  that 
evening.  But  he  stuck  to  it  that  he  was  standing  at  his 
window,  looking  out  into  the  moonlight  in  the  garden, 
when  somebody  came  up  behind  him,  and  took  him  by  the 
elbows  and  turned  him  clear  around!  He  felt  the  two 
hands  that  grabbed  hold  of  him  so  plainly  that  he  made 
sure  Horace  had  hidden  under  the  bed  and  jumped  out  to 
scare  him.    So  he  looked  under  the  bed  and  in  the  ward- 

214 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

robe  and  the  closet,  and,  for  all  I  know,  in  the  bureau 
drawers  and  under  the  washstand,  for  the  boy.  There  was 
nobody  in  the  room  but  himself,  and  the  door  was  locked. 
He  says  he  wouldn't  sleep  in  that  room  another  night  for 
a  thousand  dollars." 

"Nobody  is  likely  to  offer  it!"  retorted  Mea,  dryly.  "I 
have  slept  there  nearly  a  thousand  nights,  and  nothing 
ever  caught  hold  of  me." 

Passing  over  what  might  or  might  not  have  been  a  link 
in  the  true,  weird  history  of  our  bodiless  tenant,  I  leap  a 
chasm  of  a  dozen  years  to  wind  up  the  tale  of  the  "little 
gray  lady,"  so  far  as  it  bears  directly  upon  our  family. 
After  the  death  of  her  husband  and  the  marriages  of  sons 
and  daughters  left  my  mother  alone  in  the  old  colonial 
homestead,  she  decided  to  sell  it  and  to  live  with  my 
youngest  sister. 

The  property  was  bought  as  a  "Church  Home" — a  sort 
of  orphanage,  conducted  under  the  patronage  of  a  prominent 
Episcopal  parish  renowned  for  good  works.  In  altering  the 
premises  to  adapt  buildings  to  their  new  uses,  the  workmen 
came  upon  the  skeleton  of  a  small  woman  about  four  feet 
below  the  surface  of  the  front  yard.  She  lay  less  than  six 
feet  away  from  the  wall  of  the  house,  and  directly  under 
the  drawing-room  window.  There  was  no  sign  of  coffin  or 
coffin-plate.  Under  her  head  was  a  high,  richly  carved 
tortoise-shell  comb,  mute  evidence  that  she  had  not  been 
buried  in  cap  and  shroud,  as  was  the  custom  a  hundred 
years  agone.  The  oldest  inhabitant  of  a  city  that  is 
tenacious  of  domestic  legends,  had  never  heard  of  an  inter- 
ment in  that  quarter  of  a  residential  and  aristocratic 
district.  The  street,  named  for  the  eminent  lawyer,  must 
have  been  laid  out  since  the  house  was  built,  and  may 
have  been  cut  right  through  grounds,  then  far  more  spacious 
than  when  we  bought  the  place.  Even  so,  the  grave  was 
dug  in  the  front  garden,  and  so  close  to  the  house  as  to 

215 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

render  untenable  the  theory  that  the  plot  was  ever  part 
of  a  family  burying-ground. 

The  papers  took  inquisitive  note  of  all  these  circum- 
stances, and  let  the  matter  drop  as  an  unexplained  mys- 
tery. Within  the  present  occupancy  of  the  house,  I  have 
heard  that  the  gray  lady  still  walks  on  moonlight  nights, 
and,  in  gusty  midnights,  visits  the  bedside  of  terrified  in- 
mates to  press  small,  light  hands  upon  the  feet,  and  so 
passing  upward,  to  rest  upon  the  chest  of  the  awakened 
sleeper.  I  was  asked  by  one  who  had  felt  them,  if  I  had 
"ever  heard  the  legend  that  a  bride,  dressed  for  her  wed- 
ding, fell  dead  in  that  upper  chamber  ages  ago." 

My  informant  could  not  tell  me  from  whom  she  had  the 
grewsome  tale,  or  the  date  thereof.  "Somebody  had  told 
her  that  it  happened  once  upon  a  time."  She  knew  that 
the  unquiet  creature  still  "walked  the  halls  and  stairs." 

She  should  have  been  "laid"  by  the  decent  ceremony  of 
burial  in  consecrated  ground,  awarded  to  the  exhumed  bones. 

I  have  talked  with  a  grandson  of  our  former  next-door 
neighbor,  and  had  from  him  a  circumstantial  account  of 
the  disinterment  of  the  nameless  remains.  They  must 
have  lain  nearer  the  turf  above  them,  a  century  back,  than 
when  they  were  found.  The  young  man  was  a  boy  when 
he  ran  to  the  hole  made  by  the  workmen's  spades,  and 
watched  the  men  bring  to  light  the  entire  skeleton.  He 
verified  the  story  of  the  high,  carved  comb.  He  told  me, 
too,  of  a  midnight  alarm  of  screaming  children  at  the  vision 
of  a  little  gray  lady,  walking  between  the  double  row  of 
beds  in  the  dormitory,  adding: 

"I  told  those  who  asked  if  any  story  was  attached  to 
the  house,  that  I  had  lived  next  door  ever  since  I  was  born, 
and  played  every  day  with  your  sisters  and  brothers,  and 
never  heard  a  whisper  that  the  house  was  haunted." 

So  said  all  our  neighbors.  We  kept  our  own  counsel. 
It  was  our  father's  wise  decree. 

216 


OUR    TRUE    FAMILY    GHOST-STORY 

I  have  told  my  ghost-story  with  no  attempt  at  explana- 
tion of  psychical  phenomena.  After  all  these  years  I  fall 
back,  when  questioned  as  to  hypotheses,  upon  my  father's 
terse  dicta: 

"How  do  I  account  for  it?  I  don't  account  for  it  at 
all!" 


XXI 

TWO  MONUMENTAL  FRIENDSHIPS 

Even  at  that  period,  when  I  visited  my  father's  Northern 
kindred,  I  failed  to  bring  them  to  a  right  comprehension  of 
the  frank,  and  oftentimes  intimate,  relations  existing  be- 
tween the  young  people  of  both  sexes  in  my  Virginia  home. 
I  have  marvelled  within  myself  since,  how  these  relations 
came  to  be  established  at  the  first.  We  brought  to  the 
New  World,  and  retained,  scores  of  English  customs  of 
domestic  management,  and  traditions  of  social  obligations. 
It  was  never  the  fashion  in  England,  or  in  her  Northern 
colonies,  for  boys  to  begin  "visiting  the  young  ladies"  be- 
fore they  discarded  roundabouts,  and  to  keep  up  the  fas- 
cinating habit  until  they  tottered  into  the  grave  at  four- 
score. For  the  same  dozen  young  fellows  to  call  at  least 
once  a  week  upon  as  many  young  girls;  to  read,  chat,  jest, 
flirt,  drive,  ride,  and  walk  with  them,  month  after  month, 
and  year  after  year,  perhaps  choosing  one  of  the  dozen  as 
a  lifelong  partner,  and  quite  as  often  running  off  for  a 
season  to  another  county  or  State,  and  bringing  home  a 
wife,  with  whom  the  philosophic  coterie  speedily  got  ac- 
quainted amiably,  widening  the  circle  to  take  her  in,  with 
never  a  thought  of  chagrin. 

The  thumbnail  sketches  I  have  jotted  down  in  my 
"purposeful"  chapter,  bring  in  the  same  names,  again  and 
again.  They  were,  indeed,  and  in  truth,  household  words. 
None  of  the  young  men  and  maidens  catalogued  in  the 
Christmas  doggerel  I  shall  speak  of,  presently,  intermarried. 
Two — perhaps  four — had  secret  intentions  that  tended  tow- 

218 


TWO    MONUMENTAL    FRIENDSHIPS 

arc!  such  a  result  in  the  fulness  of  time.  Intentions,  that 
interfered  in  nowise  with  their  participation  in  the  general 
hilarity.  If  there  were  any  difference  in  the  demeanor  of 
the  engaged,  or  partially  betrothed,  pairs  from  the  behavior 
of  the  fancy-free,  it  was  in  a  somewhat  too  obvious  show 
of  impartiality.  Engagements  were  never  "announced," 
and  if  suspected,  were  ignored  in  general  society.  Thus  it 
often  happened  that  a  direct  proposal  took  a  girl  utterly 
by  surprise. 

I  was  but  sixteen,  and  on  a  summer  vacation  in  Albe- 
marle County,  when  a  collegian  of  nineteen,  who  was  swing- 
ing me  " under  green  apple  boughs" — lazily,  because  the 
rapid  rush  through  the  air  would  interfere  with  the  chat 
we  were  carrying  on,  in  full  sight  of  groups  scattered 
on  the  porch  steps  and  about  the  lawn — brought  down  my 
thoughts  —which  had  strayed  far  afield  under  the  influence 
of  the  languorous  motion,  the  sunset  and  the  soft  mingling 
of  young  voices — with  stunning  velocity,  by  declaring  that 
he  adored  me,  and  "couldn't  keep  it  to  himself  any' 
longer." 

With  never  the  suspicion  of  a  blush,  I  looked  him  straight 
in  the  eyes  and  begged  him  not  to  make  a  goose  of  him- 
self, adding:  "I  didn't  think  you  mistook  me  for  a  girl 
who  enjoys  that  kind  of  badinage.  It  is  not  a  bit  to  my 
taste.     And  we  have  been  such  good  friends!" 

When  he  suffocated  himself  dangerously  with  protesta- 
tions that  actually  brought  tears  to  his  eyes,  I  represented 
that  lookers-on  would  think  we  had  quarrelled  if  I  left 
the  swing  and  his  society  abruptly,  as  I  certainly  should 
do  if  he  did  not  begin  to  talk  sensibly,  out  of  hand.  I 
set  the  example  by  calling  to  a  boy  who  was  passing  with 
a  basket  of  apples,  and  calmly  selecting  one,  taking  my 
time  in  doing  it. 

Coquetry?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  liked  the  lad  too  well  to 
allow  him  to  make  a  breach  in  our  friendship  by  love- 

219 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

making.  When  he  came  to  his  senses  (four  years  later!) 
he  thanked  me  for  not  taking  the  matter  seriously. 

We  gave,  and  attended,  few  large  parties.  But  there  were 
no  dead  calms  in  our  intercourse.  Somebody  was  always 
getting  up  a  frolic  of  some  sort.  Tableaux,  musicales, 
"sociables,"  where,  in  Christmas  week,  and  sometimes  at 
other  times,  we  played  old-fashioned  games,  such  as  ''Con- 
sequences" upon  slips  of  paper,  and  "Kings  of  England" 
with  cards,  and  "What  is  my  thought  like?"  viva  voce. 
We  had  picnics  in  warm  weather.  Richmond  College  boys 
invited  us  out  to  receptions  following  orations  on  February 
22d,  and  we  had  Valentine  parties,  with  original  verses,  on 
February  14th. 

Nowhere,  and  at  no  time,  was  there  romping.  Still  less 
would  kissing-games  be  allowed  among  really  "nice" 
young  people.  This  was  deemed  incredible  by  my  Boston 
cousins,  and  yet  more  strange  the  fact  that  we  kept  up 
among  ourselves  decorous  conventions  that  appeared  stiff 
'and  inconsistent  to  those  not  to  the  manor  born  and  bred. 
For  example,  while  I  might,  and  did,  name  our  most  in- 
timate masculine  visitors,  "Tom,"  "Dick,"  or  "Harry" 
in  chat  with  my  girl  friends,  I  addressed  them  as  "Mr. 
Smith,"  "Jones,"  or  "Robinson,"  and  always  spoke  of  them 
in  the  same  manner  in  mentioning  them  to  strangers. 
For  a  man  to  touch  a  lady's  arm  or  shoulder  to  attract  her 
attention,  was  an  unpardonable  liberty.  If  a  pair  were 
seen  to  "hold  hands,"  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  they 
were  engaged  or — as  I  heard  a  matron  say,  when  she  had 
surprised  a  couple  walking  in  the  moonlight,  the  fair  one's 
hand  on  the  swain's  arm,  and  his  laid  lightly  upon  it — "they 
ought  to  be." 

The  well-bred  girl  of  the  fifties  might  be  a  rattle;  she 
might  enjoy  life  with  guileless  abandon  that  earned  her  the 
reputation  of  "dashing";  she  parried  shaft  of  teasing  and 
badinage  with  weapons  of  proof;  but  she  was  never  "fast." 

220 


TWO     MONUMENTAL  FRIENDSHIPS 

She  kept  her  self-respect,  and  challenged  the  reverent  re- 
spect of  the  men  who  knew  her  best. 

To  this  code  of  social  and  ceremonial  ethics,  and  to  the 
ban  put  upon  dancing  and  card-playing  by  church  and 
parents,  is  undoubtedly  due  the  fact  that  Southern  women 
of  that  generation  were  almost  invariably  what  we  would 
call,  "good  talkers."  In  the  remembrance,  and  in  con- 
trasting that  all-so-long-ago  with  the  times  in  which  we 
live,  I  could  write  a  jeremiade  upon  "Conversation  as  a 
Lost  Art." 

From  the  list  of  names  drawn  into  line  by  some  Yule- 
tide  rhymes  of  my  own,  bearing  the  date  of  "  1852,"  I 
single  two  that  must  have  more  than  a  passing  notice  if 
I  would  write  the  true  story  of  my  threescore-and-ten 
years. 

Mary  Massie  Ragland  was,  at  that  Christmas-tide,  twenty- 
two  years  of  age.  I  had  liked  and  admired  her  from  the 
first.  In  time  she  grew  into  a  place  in  my  heart  no  other 
friend  had  ever  held,  and  which,  left  vacant  by  her  death 
six  years  later,  has  never  been  taken.  I  think  no  man 
or  woman  has  more  than  one  complete,  all-satisfying  friend- 
ship in  a  lifetime.  Her  portrait  hangs  against  the  wall  in 
my  bedchamber  now.  I  awake  each  morning  to  meet  her 
gaze  bent,  as  in  life,  on  mine.  In  sorrow  and  in  joy,  I  have 
gone  secretly  to  my  room,  as  to  an  oratory,  to  seek  in  the 
depths  of  the  beautiful  eyes  the  sympathy  never  denied 
while  she  was  with  me,  and  visible^  to  my  dull  vision.  To 
a  mind  stored  richly  with  the  best  literature,  eager  to  ac- 
quire and  faithful  to  retain,  she  added  exquisite  fancies, 
poetic  tastes,  and  love  for  the  beautiful  that  was  a  passion. 
Her  heart  was  warm,  deep,  tender,  and  true.  It  well-nigh 
breaks  mine  in  remembering  how  true !  In  all  the  ten  years 
in  which  we  lived  and  loved  together  in  closest  intimacy, 
not  a  cloud  ever  crossed  the  heaven  of  our  friendship. 

One  remark,  uttered  simply  and  with  infinite  gentleness 

221 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

by  her,  after  a  great  loss  had  chastened  her  buoyant  spirits, 
stands  with  me  as  the  keynote  to  action  and  character. 

I  was  commenting  somewhat  sharply  upon  my  disap- 
pointment in  not  meeting,  from  one  whom  I  loved  and 
trusted,  the  fulness  of  sympathy  I  thought  I  had  a  right 
to  expect  in  what  was  a  genuine  trial  to  myself. 

"She  was  hard  and  critical!"  I  moaned.  "You  saw  it, 
yourself!  You  cannot  deny  it!  And  she  was  absolutely 
rude  to  you!" 

"Dear!"  The  stroking  fingers  upon  my  bowed  head 
were  a  benediction;  the  sweet  voice  was  eloquent  with 
compassion.  "Don't  judge  her  harshly!  She  is  good,  and 
true  to  you  and  to  the  right.  But  she  has  never  had  sor- 
row to  make  her  tender." 

How  boundless  was  the  tenderness,  my  mentor,  who  com- 
forted while  she  admonished,  learned  in  the  school  of  pain 
in  which  she  studied  until  Death  dismissed  her  spirit,  was 
fully  known  to  Him  alone  whose  faithful  disciple  she  was 
to  the  end. 

To  the  world  she  showed  a  smiling  front;  her  merry 
laugh  and  ready  repartee  were  the  life  of  whatever  com- 
pany she  entered,  and  over  and  through  it  all,  it  might  be 
reverently  said  of  the  true,  heroic  soul,  that,  to  high  and 
humble,   "her  compassions  failed  not." 

"Refined  by  nature  and  refined  by  grace!"  said  one  above 
her  coffin. 

I  added,  inly:  "And  by  sorrow!" 

"The  kind  of  woman  to  whom  a  fellow  takes  off  his  hat 
when  he  thinks  of  her,"  a  young  cousin,  who  had  been 
as  a  brother  to  her,  wrote  to  me  after  her  death.  "It  took 
six  thousand  years  to  make  one  such.  I  shall  never 
know  another." 

While  on  a  visit  to  my  old  and  beloved  preceptors,  Mrs. 
Nottingham  and  her  daughters,  then  resident  in  Lexington, 
Virginia,  I  met  Junius  Fishburn,  lately  graduated  from 

222 


TWO    MONUMENTAL    FRIENDSHIPS 

Washington  College — now  Washington  and  Lee.  He  was 
an  early  and  intimate  friend  of  the  "Ragland  girls,"  and 
in  a  way  (according  to  Virginia  ways  of  reckoning  kin- 
ship) a  family  connection  of  theirs,  too  remote  to  deserve 
recognition  in  any  other  region  or  society.  But  he  claimed 
through  this  the  right  to  omit  the  initial  steps  of  ac- 
quaintanceship, and  I  recognized  the  right.  We  were 
quickly  friends — so  quickly,  tha,t  it  was  no  surprise  to  me 
when  he  enclosed  a  note  to  me  in  a  letter  to  one  of  the 
Ragland  sisters,  shortly  after  my  return  home.  I  answered 
it,  and  thus  was  established  a  correspondence  continued 
through  a  term  of  years,  without  serious  interruption,  up 
to  the  day  when,  in  the  second  year  after  my  marriage, 
my  husband  entered  my  room  with  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and 
a  grave  look  on  his  face. 

"Here  is  sad,  sad  news  for  you,"  he  said,  gently.  "Pro- 
fessor Fishburn  is  dead!" 

The  beautiful  young  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married 
less  than  two  years,  was  a  sister  of  "Stonewall  Jackson's" 
first  wife,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  George  Junkin,  then  President 
of  Washington  College,  and  sister  of  the  poet,  Margaret 
Junkin  Preston.  After  "June's"  death,  Mrs.  Preston,  my 
dear  friend,  wrote  to  me  of  a  desire  her  widowed  sister 
hesitated  to  express  directly  to  me.  Her  husband  had 
told  her  that  more  of  his  early  and  inner  life  was  told  in 
this  series  of  letters  to  me  than  he  could  ever  relate  to 
any  one  else.  Would  I  be  willing  to  let  her  read  a  few 
selected  by  myself?  I  had  known  him  before  he  met 
her.  If  the  request  were  unreasonable,  she  would  with- 
draw it. 

There  could  have  been  no  surer  proof  of  the  sincerity, 
the  purity,  and  absolute  absence  of  everything  pertaining 
to  love-making  and  flirtation  in  our  ten-year-long  friend- 
ship, than  was  offered  in  the  circumstance  that,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  or  the  exclusion  of  a  single  letter,  I 

223 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

made  up  a  parcel  of  the  epistles,  and  sent  it,  with  my  fond 
love,  to  the  widow  of  my  lamented  friend. 

His  letters  were  but  a  degree  less  charming  than  his 
conversation.  I  considered  him,  then,  and  I  have  not 
changed  my  opinion  after  seeing  much  more  of  the  world 
of  society  men  and  brilliant  women,  one  of  the  best  talkers 
I  have  known. 

"You  have  hit  it  off  happily  there,"  said  Mary,  at  the 
jolly  reading  of  the  lines  on  New- Year's  Day,  to  "us  girls." 

And  she  repeated: 

"Social  and  witty,  kind  and  clever; 
His  chat  an  easy,  pleasant  flow, 
A  thread  you'd  never  wish  to  sever." 

He  was  all  this,  and  more.  Our  correspondence  was  a 
stage,  and  an  important,  in  my  education.  We  discussed 
books,  authors,  military  and  political  heroes,  psychology, 
philology,  theology,  and,  as  time  made  us  more  intimate 
with  the  depths  underlying  the  dancing  waves  of  thought 
and  fancy,  we  talked  much  of  religious  faith  and  tenets. 

On  August  26,  1850,  I  wrote  to  Effie: 

"My  long  neglect  of  correspondents  (for  you  are  not  the  only 
neglected  one)  has  caused  letters  in  abundance  to  accumulate. 
Among  others  there  lies  before  me  one  from  my  friend,  Junius 
F.,  a  full  sheet,  bearing  a  date  anterior  to  your  last,  and 
requesting  an  'immediate  reply.'  He  is  a  fine  fellow — one  of 
my  'literary'  friends.  Have  you  chanced  to  see  anything 
of  his  published  work?  His  poems,  essays,  etc.,  would  re- 
flect credit  upon  any  one.  I  give  you  the  preference  to-day 
because  it  will  not  hurt  him  to  wait." 

The  same  calm  confidence  in  the  liking  we  bore  one 
another  prevailed  throughout  our  intercourse.  Untimely 
storms  and  sudden  gusts  belong  to  the  tropics  of  passion, 
not  to  the  temperate  zone  of  Platonic  affection. 

224 


TWO    MONUMENTAL    FRIENDSHIPS 

It  was  about  this  time  that  my  presumptuous  brain  con- 
ceived the  thought  that  my  friend  should  be  in  the  pulpit, 
instead  of  in  the  professorial  chair  to  which  he  was  ap- 
pointed after  winning  his  degree  from  the  University  of 
Virginia,  whither  he  had  gone  from  Washington  College 
for  a  post-graduate  course,  and  a  more  thorough  equipment 
for  his  chosen  life-work.  With  the  Brahmin  traditions 
strong  upon  me,  and  the  blue  blood  of  Presbyterianism 
seething  in  my  veins,  I  forthwith  made  out  a  "call,"  ampli- 
fied through  six  pages  of  Bath  post,  and  dispatched  it  to 
Lexington. 

The  nearest  approach  to  tenderness  in  any  of  our  many 
letters,  came  out  in  his  reply: 

"A  brother's  fondness  gushed  up  in  my  heart  as  I  read 
your  earnest  pleadings,"  was  the  opening  sentence  of  a 
masterly  exposition  of  the  reasons  that,  as  he  phrased  it, 
"forbid  my  unhallowed  feet  to  stand  within  the  sacred 
desk."  I  was  wrong,  and  he  was  right.  His  fearless  utter- 
ance of  the  faith  which  was  the  mainspring  of  life  and 
action,  carried  force  a  licensed  clergyman  seldom  gains. 

He  fought  the  good  fight  in  the  ranks,  refusing  the  com- 
mission that  had  not,  as  he  believed,  the  King's  seal. 

I  had  no  living  elder  brother.  I  hardly  felt  the  loss 
while  Junius  lived.  In  1855  he  took  a  year's  leave  of 
absence,  and  spent  it  in  a  German  university.  My  father 
and  myself  were  just  setting  out  for  Boston  and  the  White 
Mountains,  and  accompanied  him  as  far  as  New  York. 
Junius  and  I  were  promenading  the  deck  of  the  Potomac 
steamer  when  I  showed  him  an  ambrotype  given  me  by 
"a  friend  whom  I  am  sorry  you  have  never  met." 

He  looked  at  it  intently  for  a  moment,  and,  in  closing  the 
case,  searched  my  face  with  eyes  at  once  smiling  and 
piercing. 

"Are  you  trying  to  tell  me  something?"  he  asked,  in 
the  gentlest  of  tones. 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  answered  honestly:  "No;  there  is  nothing  to  tell. 
We  are  warm  friends — no  more." 

We  were  interrupted,  and  had  no  more  opportunity  for 
confidential  chat  until  that  evening,  when  we  strolled  from 
the  hotel  along  the  moonlighted  streets  to  the  Capitol. 
He  alluded  playfully,  in  a  German  letter,  to  the  never-to- 
be-forgotten  excursion — our  last  moonlit  ramble,  although 
we  did  not  dream  of  it  then — as  "my  walk  with  Corinne  to 
the  Capitol." 

(Men  took  time  and  pains  to  say  graceful  things,  then-a- 
days  !) 

He  told  me  that  night — what  he  had  already  written  in 
brief  in  a  late  letter — of  his  betrothal,  of  his  happiness,  and 
his  ambition  to  make  the  best  of  himself  for  the  dear  sake  of 
the  woman  who  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  college  town 
engirdled  by  the  blue  Virginian  mountains. 

The  next  day  but  one  he  sailed.  My  father  and  myself 
bade  him  "God-speed!"     I  was  glad  it  so  happened. 

If  I  had  fewer  causes  for  devout  thanksgiving  to  the 
Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  joy  than  have  crowned 
my  life,  I  should  still  account  myself  rich  in  the  memory 
of  these  two  perfect  friendships.  In  my  ignorance  of  the 
world  that  lay  without,  and  far  beyond  my  small  circle  of 
thought,  and  what  I  believed  were  activities,  I  did  not 
rightly  appreciate  the  rarity  of  the  gifts.  I  did  know  that 
they  were  passing  sweet,  and  longed  to  prove  myself  worthy 
of  holding  them. 

This  chapter  of  my  humble  record  is  a  sprig  of  rosemary 
laid  upon  Friendship's  Shrine. 


XXII 

THE   aOLD   AFRICAN   CHURCH" 

No  description  of  the  Richmond  of  the  forties  and  fifties 
would  be  complete  without  a  sketch  of  what  was,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  the  first  Baptist  Church  erected  in  the  city.  The 
white  congregation  that  occupied  it  for  some  years  had 
built  a  large,  handsome  church  farther  up  the  hill,  and  the 
squat,  but  spacious,  house  on  the  lower  slope  of  Broad 
Street,  was  made  over  to  the  colored  population. 

I  say  " population"  advisedly.  For  perhaps  half  a  cen- 
tury, the  Richmond  negroes  had  no  other  place  of  public 
worship,  and  the  communicants  in  that  denomination  were 
numbered  by  the  thousand.  They  are  an  emotionally  re- 
ligious race,  and  I  doubt  if  there  were,  all  told,  one  hundred 
colored  members  of  any  other  sect  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  county  of  Henrico. 

The  low-browed,  dingy,  brick  edifice  surrendered  to  their 
use  was  said  to  have  a  seating  capacity  of  two  thousand. 
It  was  therefore  in  demand  when  mass  political  meetings 
were  convened.  When  John  B.  Gough  lectured  in  our  city, 
no  other  building  could  accommodate  the  crowds  that 
flocked  to  see  and  hear  him. 

Big  as  it  was,  the  house  was  filled  every  Sunday.  There 
was  a  regular  church  organization  in  which  deacons  and 
ushers  were  colored.  Of  course  the  Pastor  was  a  white. 
And  oddly  enough,  or  so  it  seemed  to  outsiders,  the  shep- 
herd of  the  black  flock  was  the  President  of  Richmond 
College  and  Divinity  School,  situated  upon  the  outskirts 
of  the  city. 

16  227 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

His  pastoral  duties  outside  of  his  pulpit  ministrations 
were  not  onerous.  The  Daughters  of  Zion,  a  flourishing 
society,  looked  after  the  sick  and  afflicted.  There  were 
no  colored  paupers  under  the  slave  system,  except,  once  in 
a  great  while,  "a  no  'count  free  nigger."  This  last  word 
was  never  applied  to  a  fellow-servant,  but  freely  and  dis- 
dainfully fitted  to  the  unfortunate  freedman. 

I  was  never  able  to  disabuse  my  mind  of  appreciation  of 
the  comic  element  in  viewing  the  Rev.  Robert  Ryland, 
D.D.  (and  I  am  not  sure  but  "LL.D."  as  well),  in  his  position 
as  Pastor  of  the  First  African  Church.  He  was  a  staid  per- 
sonage of  middle  age,  who  may  have  been  learned.  If  he 
were,  the  incongruity  was  the  more  absurd.  He  was  never 
brilliant.  Nor  had  he  the  power  of  adapting  himself  to 
his  audience  that  might  have  saved  the  situation  in  some 
measure.  I  heard  him  preach  once  to  his  dusky  cure  of 
souls.  He  began  by  saying,  apropos  to  his  text  from 
Paul's  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians: 

"Shortly  after  the  Apostle's  departure  from  that  place, 
there  arose  dissensions  in  the  church  at  Oo-rinth." 

A  preamble  that  was  greeted  by  appreciative  groans 
from  the  women  in  the  audience.  As  was  the  assertion, 
later  on,  in  the  same  discourse,  that — 

"Christ  may  be  called  the  Concrete  Idea  of  our  most 
holy  Faith."  Still  more  pronounced  was  the  murmured 
applause  that  succeeded  the  remark — "This  may  be  true  in 
the  Abstract.     It  is  not  true  in  the  Concrete." 

"Concrete"  was  a  new  word  in  philosophers'  mouths  just 
then,  and  he  worked  it  hard. 

The  anecdote  of  the  parishioner  who  found  "that  blessed 
word  'Mesopotamia'"  the  most  comforting  part  of  her 
minister's  sermon,  is  entirely  credible  if  she  were  of  African 
descent.  Polysyllables  were  a  ceaseless  feast  to  their  im- 
aginations. Sesquipedalian  periods  were  spiritual  nectar 
and  ambrosia.     The  barbaric  and  the  florid  were  bound 

228 


THE     "OLD     AFRICAN     CHURCH" 

up  in  their  nature,  and  the  rod  of  an  alien  civilization  could 
not  drive  it  far  from  them. 

In  church  relations,  they  recognized  and  revelled  rankly 
in  the  levelling  principle  of  Christianity  which,  within  the 
sacred  circle  of  the  bonds  of  a  common  faith,  made  no  in- 
vidious distinctions  between  bond  and  free.  The  staid 
D.D.  was  to  them  "Brer  Ryland"  on  week-days,  as  on  Sun- 
days. I  am  sure  it  never  occurred  to  the  humblest  of 
them  that  whatever  of  dignity  pertained  to  the  rela- 
tion was  his,  by  virtue  of  his  holy  calling,  and  they  were 
honored  in  that  their  spiritual  guide  belonged  to  a  su- 
perior race  and  was  at  the  head  of  an  institution  of 
learning. 

How  freely  they  discussed  him  and  his  teachings,  will  be 
illustrated  by  a  dialogue  overheard  by  me  in  my  early 
school-days. 

I  was  walking  behind  two  colored  women  one  Sunday 
on  my  way  home  from  church.  They  were  evidently 
ladies'  maids,  from  their  mincing  speech  and  affected  gait, 
and  were  invested  with  what  was,  as  palpably,  their  mis- 
tresses' discarded  finery. 

"Brer  Rylan'  was  quite  too  severe  'pon  dancin',"  was 
the  first  sentence  that  caught  my  ear.  "He  is  kinder  hard 
'pon  innercint  aversions,  oncet  in  a  while.  You  know  we 
read  in  the  Bible  that  the  angels  in  heaven  dance  'round 
the  throne." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  elder  of  the  two,  "an'  play  'pon 
jewsharps!  But  I've  been  heard  that  they  don'  cross  they 
feet,  and  that  makes  a  mighty  difference  in  the  sin  o' 
dancin'.  Of  course,  we  all  of  us  knows  that  it's  a  sin  for 
a  Christy un  to  dance;  but,  as  you  say,  Brer  Rylan'  is  down- 
right oncharitable  sometimes  in  talkin'  'bout  young  folks' 
ways  and  frolickin'.  He  will  let  them  promenade  to  the 
music  of  the  band  when  the  students  has  parties  at  the 
college,  but  never  a  dancin'  step!" 

229 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Not  even/'  with  a  shrill  giggle,  "if  they  don't  cross 
they  feet?" 

As  time  whitened  the  good  man's  hair  and  brought  heav- 
ier duties  to  his  head  and  hands,  he  fell  into  the  habit  of 
delegating  the  afternoon  service  at  the  "Old  African"  to 
his  neophytes  in  the  Divinity  School.  He  may  have  judged 
rightly  that  it  was  excellent  practice  for  the  'prentice  hand 
of  embryo  pulpit  orators.  One  of  the  brightest  of  these, 
who  afterward  made  good  the  promise  of  distinguished 
usefulness  in  the  Southern  Church,  was  the  officiating 
evangelist  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  when  a  lively 
party  of  girls  and  collegians  planned  to  attend  the  "Old 
African, "  in  a  body,  and  witness  his  maiden  performance. 

He  knew  we  were  coming,  and  why,  but  he  uttered  not 
a  word  of  protest.  As  he  said  afterward,  "The  sooner  he 
got  used  to  mixed  audiences,  the  better." 

What  were  known  as  the  "Amen  benches,"  at  the  left 
of  the  pulpit,  were  reserved  for  white  auditors.  They  were 
always  full.  On  this  afternoon  they  were  packed  tightly. 
The  main  body  of  the  church  was  also  filled,  and  we  soon 
became  aware  that  an  unusual  flutter  of  solemn  excitement 
pervaded  the  well-dressed  throng.  The  front  block  of 
seats  on  each  side  of  the  middle  aisle  was  occupied  by 
women,  dressed  in  black,  many  of  them  closely  veiled,  and 
pocket-handkerchiefs  were  ostentatiously  displayed,  gen- 
erally clasped  between  black-gloved  hands  folded  upon  the 
pit  of  the  stomach. 

"Reminds  one  of  a  rising  thundercloud!"  whispered  a 
graceless  youth  behind  me. 

Presently  a  deacon,  likewise  lugubrious  in  aspect,  tip- 
toed into  the  pulpit,  where  sat  the  young  theologue,  and, 
holding  his  silk  hat  exactly  upon  the  small  of  his  back  in 
the  left  hand,  bent  low  in  offering  the  right  to  the  preacher. 

The  subdued  rustle  and  shuffling,  incident  to  the  settling 
into  place  of  a  large  congregation,  prevented  us  from  hear- 

^230 


THE     "OLD     AFRICAN     CHURCH" 

ing  the  low  colloquy  that  succeeded  the  handshake.  We 
had  it  in  full  from  one  of  the  actors,  that  evening. 

The  functionary  began  by  expressing  the  gratification  of 
the  congregation  that  "Brer  Rylan'  had  sent  such  a  talent- 
able  young  gentleman  to  'ficiate  'pon  dis  occasion. 

"  We  been  heerd  a-many  times  of  what  a  promisin'  young 
gentleman  Brer  W.  is,  an'  we  is  certainly  mightily  flattered 
at  seein'  him  in  our  midst  'pon  dis  occasion.  I  jes'  steps 
up  here,  suh,  to  say  dis,  an'  to  arsk  is  dere  anything  any  of 
us  ken  do  to  resist  Brer  W.  'pon  dis  occasion." 

"Thank  you,  nothing!"  responded  the  other,  courteously. 
"You  are  very  kind.  The  choir  will  take  care  of  the  music, 
as  usual,  I  suppose?" 

"Suttinly,  suh,  suttinly!  De  choir  am  always  depend- 
able 'pon  every  occasion.  An'  dey  has  prepared  special 
music  for  dis  solemn  occasion." 

Reiteration  of  the  word  had  not  aroused  the  listener's 
curiosity.  The  last  adjective,  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
brought  out,  awoke  him  wide. 

"Solemn!"  he  re-echoed.  "Is  there  anything  special  in 
the  services  of  to-day?" 

The  hand  grasping  the  silk  hat  executed  a  half-circle  in 
the  air  that  seemed  to  frame  the  black-robed  block  of 
sitters  for  the  startled  youth. 

"Yaas,  suh!  Surely  Brer  Rylan'  must  'a'  told  Brer  W. 
de  nature  of  our  comin'  togedder  to-day!  It's  a  funeral, 
suh.  De  dear  departed  deceasted  nigh  'pon  two  mont' 
ago,  but  we  haven't  foun'  it  agreeable,  as  you  mought  say, 
to  all  parties  concerned,  fur  to  bring  all  de  family  an'  Men's 
together  tell  terday.  But  dey  are  here  now,  suh,  as  you 
may  see  fur  yourself.  An'  we  are  moughty  pleased  dat 
Brer  Rylan'  has  sont  sech  a  'sponsible  preacher  to  us  as 
Brer  W." 

"Mercy,  man!"  gasped  the  affrighted  novice,  clutching 
frantically  at  the  notes  he  had  been  conning  when  the 

231 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

deacon  accosted  him.  "I  knew  nothing  of  the  funeral 
when  I  came.  I  can't  preach  a  funeral  sermon  out  of  hand ! 
There  isn't  anything  about  death  in  my  notes." 

His  distress  wrought  visibly  upon  the  deacon's  sym- 
pathies.    The  hat  described  a  reassuring  parabola. 

"There,  there!  It  ain't  necessary  for  Brer  W.  to  dis- 
combobberate  himself  'pon  dat  account.  A  young  gentle- 
man of  Brer  W.'s  talents  needn't  get  skeered  at  a  little 
thing  like  an  ev'ry-day  funeral.  All  dat  Brer  W.  has  to 
do  is  to  say  a  few  words  'bout  de  dear  deceasted;  'bout  de 
loss  to  de  church,  an'  de  family,  an'  Men's,  an'  de  suttinty 
o'  death,  an'  de  las'  change.  An'  den  a  few  rousements, 
you  know,  throwed  in  at  de  end.  Law!  I  ken  hear  Brer 
W.  doin'  it  up  fine,  when  I  think  on  it! 

"Dar!  de  choir  is  a-startin'  de  funeral  anthim.  Thank 
you,  suh,  fur  comin'  to  us,  and  don't  give  yo'self  no  on- 
easiness!  Sling  in  dem  remarks  'spectin'  de  dear  de- 
ceasted, and  you'll  be  all  right." 

I  forget  the  text  of  the  sermon  that  followed  the  anthem 
and  the  prayer.  I  but  know  that  neither  it,  nor  the  intro- 
duction, had  any  relevancy  to  the  "occasion."  Our  friend 
became  a  brilliant  speaker  in  later  life.  Now,  he  was  no 
more  sophomoric  than  are  nine-tenths  of  seminary  students. 
But  as  he  went  on,  we — in  the  slang  of  this  era — began  to 
sit  up  and  take  notice;  for  with  dexterity  remarkable  in 
a  tyro,  he  switched  off  from  the  main  line  into  a  by-road 
that  led,  like  the  paths  of  glory,  to  the  grave.  He  had  fine 
feeling  and  a  lively  imagination,  and  the  scene  and  the 
music  had  laid  hold  upon  both.  As  he  confessed,  subse- 
quently, he  surprised  himself  by  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  departed  brother.  He  dwelt  upon  his  fidelity  to 
duty,  his  devotion  to  the  Church  of  his  love,  and  what  he 
had  done  for  her  best  interests.  Singling  out,  as  by  divina- 
tion, the  widow,  whose  long  crepe  veil  billowed  stormily 
with  audible  sobs,  he  referred  tenderly  to  her  loneliness, 

232 


THE     "OLD     AFRICAN     CHURCH" 

and  committed  her  and  the  fatherless  children  to  the  Great 
Father  and  Comforter  of  all.  By  this  time  the  congrega- 
tion was  a  seething  mass  of  emotion.  Fluttering  handker- 
chiefs, sighs  that  swept  the  church  like  fitful  breezes,  and 
suppressed  wails  from  the  central  block  of  reserved  seats, 
drowned  the  feeling  peroration,  but  we  guessed  the  pur- 
port from  the  speaker's  face  and  gestures. 

As  he  sat  down,  the  audience  arose,  as  one  woman,  and 
broke  into  a  funeral  chant  never  written  in  any  music- 
book,  and  in  which  the  choir,  who  sang  by  note,  took  no 
part: 

"We'll  pass  over  Jordan,  O  my  brothers,  0  my  sisters! 
De  water's  chilly  an'  cold,  but  Hallelujah  to  de  Lamb! 
Honor  de  Lamb,  my  chillun,  honor  de  Lamb!" 

This  was  shouted  over  and  over,  with  upraised  arms  at  one 
portion,  and,  as  the  refrain  was  repeated,  all  joined  hands 
with  those  nearest  to  them  and  shook  from  head  to  foot 
in  a  sort  of  Dervish  dance,  without,  however,  raising  the 
feet  from  the  floor.  It  was  such  an  ecstatic  shiver  as  I 
saw  thirty-odd  years  thereafter,  when  a  Nubian  dancer 
gave  an  exhibition  in  a  private  house  in  the  suburbs  of 
Jerusalem. 

I  shall  have  more  to  say  of  that  chant  presently.  Return 
we  to  the  orator  of  the  occasion,  whose  extemporaneous 
"effort"  had  stirred  up  the  pious  tumult. 

As  soon  as  his  share  of  the  service  was  over,  he 
slipped  out  of  the  box -pulpit  and  sidled  through  the 
throng  to  the  corner  where  we  were  grouped,  watching  for 
a  chance  to  make  our  exit  without  attracting  the  attention 
of  the  worshippers.  He  had  just  reached  us  when  the 
quick-eyed,  fleet-footed  deacon  was  at  his  side.  We  over- 
heard what  passed  between  them. 

"Brer  W.,  suh,  I  come  to  thank  you  in  the  name  o'  de 
bereaved  fam'ly  of  de  dear  deceasted,  suh,  for  yo'  powerful 
sermon  dis  arternoon.     Nothin'  could  'a'  been  better  an' 

233 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

mo'  suitabler.  Dey  all  agree  on  dat  ar'  p'int,  suli.  Every 
one  on  'em  is  puffickly  satisfied!  You  couldn't  'a'  done  no 
better,  suh,  ef  you  'a'  had  a  year  to  get  ready  in." 

Poor  W.,  red  to  the  roots  of  his  fair  hair,  murmured  his 
thanks,  and  the  sable  official  was  backing  away  when  he 
recollected  something  unsaid: 

"Dar  was  jes'  one  little  matter  I  mought  'a'  mentioned 
at  de  fust,  suh  (not  dat  it  made  no  difference  whatsom- 
ever;  de  fam'ly,  maybe,  wouldn't  keer  to  have  me  speak 
o'  sech  a  trifle),  but  de  dear  deceasted  ivas  a  sister!" 

Then  it  was  that  W.  turned  an  agonized  face  upon  our 
convulsed  group: 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  is  there  a  back  door  or  window  by 
which  a  fellow  can  get  out  of  this  place?" 

The  choir  of  the  "Old  African"  was  one  of  the  shows  of 
the  city.  Few  members  of  it  could  read  the  words  of  the 
hymns  and  anthems.  Every  one  of  them  could  read  the 
notes,  and  follow  them  aright.  The  parts  were  well- 
balanced  and  well-sustained.  Those  who  have  heard  the 
Fisk  University  Jubilee  singers  do  not  need  the  assurance 
that  the  quality  of  the  negro  voice  is  rarely  sweet  and  rich, 
and  that,  as  a  race,  they  have  a  passion  for  music.  Visitors 
from  Northern  cities  who  spent  the  Sabbath  in  Richmond 
seldom  failed  to  hear  the  famed  choir  of  the  Old  African. 
On  this  afternoon,  the  then  popular  and  always  beautiful 
Jerusalem,  My  Happy  Home,  was  rendered  with  exquisite 
skill  and  feeling.  George  F.  Root,  who  heard  the  choir 
more  than  once  while  he  was  our  guest,  could  not  say 
enough  of  the  beauty  of  this  anthem-hymn  as  given  by  the 
colored  band.  He  declared  that  one  soloist  had  "the  finest 
natural  tenor  he  ever  heard." 

But  these  were  not  the  representative  singers  of  the  race. 
Still  less  should  airs,  composed  by  white  musicians  and 
sung  all  over  the  country  as  "negro  melodies,"  pass  as 
characteristic.    They  are  the  white  man's  conception  of 

234 


THE     "OLD     AFRICAN     CHURCH" 

what  the  expatriated  tribes  should  think  and  feel  and 
sing. 

More  than  thirty  years  after  the  maiden  sermon  of  which 
I  have  written,  our  little  party  of  American  travellers  drew 
back  against  the  wall  of  the  reputed  "  house  of  Simon  the 
Tanner"  in  Jaffa  (the  ancient  Joppa),  to  let  a  funeral  pro- 
cession pass.  The  dead  man,  borne  without  a  coffin, 
upon  the  shoulders  of  four  gigantic  Nubians,  was  of 
their  race.  Two-thirds  of  the  crowd,  that  trudged, 
barefooted,  through  the  muddy  streets  behind  the  bier, 
were  of  the  same  nationality.  And  as  they  plod- 
ded through  the  mire,  they  chanted  the  identical  "wild, 
wailing  measure"  familiar  to  me  from  my  infancy,  which 
was  sung  that  Sunday  afternoon  to  the  words  "  We'll  pass 
over  Jordan" — even  to  the  oft-iterated  refrain,  "Honor, 
my  chillun,  honor  de  Lamb!" 

The  gutterals  of  the  outlandish  tongue  were  all  that  was 
unlike.  The  air  was  precisely  the  same,  and  the  time  and 
intonations. 

We  have  taken  great  pains  to  trace  the  negro  folk-lore 
back  to  its  root.  The  musical  antiquarian  is  yet  to  arise 
who  will  track  to  their  home  the  unwritten  tunes  and 
chants  the  liberated  negro  is  trying  to  forget,  and  to  which 
his  grandparents  clung  lovingly,  all  unaware  that  they 
were  an  inheritance  more  than  a  dozen  generations  old. 

Trained  choirs  might  learn  "book  music,"  and  scorn 
the  airs  crooned  over  their  cradles,  and  shouted  and  wailed 
in  prayer  and  camp  meetings,  by  mothers  and  fathers. 
The  common  people  held  obstinately  to  their  very  own 
music,  and  were  not  to  be  shaken  loose  by  the  "notions" 
of  "young  folks  who  hadn't  got  the  egg-shells  off  en  they 
hades." 

I  asked  once,  during  a  concert  given  by  students  from 
Hampton  Institute,  if  the  leader  would  call  upon  them 
for  certain  of  the  old  songs — naming  two  or  three.      I  was 

235 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

told  that  they  objected  to  learning  them,  because  they 
were  associated  with  the  days  of  their  bondage.  I  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  convince  the  spruce  maestro  that 
what  I  wished  to  hear  were  memorials  of  the  days  of  wild- 
est liberty,  when  their  forbears  hunted  "big  game"  in 
their  tangled  native  forests,  and  paddled  their  boats  upon 
livers  the  white  man  had  never  explored. 


XXIII 


HOW       ALONE       CAME  TO   BE 


"June  5th,  1854. 
"...  You  anticipate  from  this  formidable  array  of  duties, 
"hindrances,  etc.,  that  it  will  be  some  time,  yet,  before  I  can 
avail  myself  of  your  bewitching  invitation.  I  doubt  if  I 
shall  be  ready  to  accept  Powhie's  gallant  offer  of  his  escort, 
although  it  is  tempting,.     But — 

"'I'm  coming!   yes,  I'm  coming!5 

in  July,  wind,  weather,  and  all  else  permitting. 

"You  will  probably  see  a  more  august  personage  next  Sun- 
day. I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  let  you  into  the 
secret  of  a  little  manoeuvring  of  my  own.  I  had  an  intimation 
a  few  weeks  ago  that  Miss  L.  and  poor  lonely  Mr.  S.,  her  near 
neighbor,  were  nodding  at  each  other  across  the  road.  There 
was  an  allusion  to  horseback  rides,  and  a  less  fertile  imagina- 
tion could  have  concocted  a  very  tolerable  story  out  of  the 
facts  ( ?)  in  hand. 

"But  didn't  I  make  it  tell?  The  plausible  tale  crashed  into 
the  peaceful  brain  of  our  worthy  uncle-in-law  like  a  bomb- 
shell into  a  quiet  chamber  at  midnight.  How  he  squirmed, 
and  fidgeted,  and  tried  to  smile!  'Twas  all  a  ghastly  grin!  I 
winked  at  Herbert,  who  chanced  to  come  in  while  the  narra- 
tive was  in  progress.  The  rogue  had  heard  but  the  merest 
outline,  and  paid  no  attention  to  that;  but  he  made  a  'sight 
draught'  upon  his  inventive  talents,  and — adding  to  the  rides, 
'moonlight  walks,  afternoon  strolls  to  the  tobacco  patch,  and 
along  the  road  toward  the  big  gate  to  see  whether  the  joint- 
worm  was  in  the  wheat/  and  insinuations  that  these  excursions 

237 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  more  to  the  lady's  taste  than  'sanctuary  privileges' — 
almost  drove  the  venerable  wooer  crazy. 

"'Yes!'  said  he,  bitterly,  pushing  back  his  chair  from  the 
table.  'He  has  a  house  and  plantation.  A  land-rope  is  a 
strong  rope!     Women  look  at  these  things.' 

"He  actually  followed  Herbert  to  the  front  door  to  suppli- 
cate— Herbert  declares,  'with  tears  in  both  eyes' — that  he 
would  at  least  tell  him  if  his  information  was  '  authentic,  or  if  it 
might  not  be  that  he  was  trying  to  scare  him?'  Herbert  ex- 
cused himself  upon  the  plea  of  pressing  business,  but  invited 
him  to  '  drop  into  the  office  some  time  if  he  would  have  further 
particulars/ 

"Our  plot  works  to  a  charm.  The  reverend  swain  sets  out 
'this  very  week'  for  Powhatan,  and  'means  to  have  the  matter 
settled.'    So,  look  out  for  him! 

"All  this  rigmarole  is  strictly  true.  No  boy  of  seventeen 
was  ever  more  angrily  jealous  or  desperate.  You  may,  if  you 
like,  let  the  Montrosians  into  the  fun,  but,  until  the  matter 
is  settled,  don't  let  the  key  pass  into  other  hands. 

"Isn't  it  glorious?  Two  bald  heads  ducking  and  ogling  to 
one  fortunate  damsel — their  bleared  eyes  looking  'pistols  for 
two,  coffee  for  one!'  at  each  other?  What  an  entrancing  in- 
terruption to  the  monotony  of  a  life  that,  until  now,  has  flowed 
as  gently  as  a  canal  stream  over  a  grade  of  a  foot  to  a  mile?" 

I  remark,  en  passant,  what  will  probably  interest  not  a 
living  creature  of  this  generation — to  wit,  that  neither  of 
the  competitors  won  the  amiable  woman  they  made 
ridiculous  by  their  wintry  wooing.  She  returned  a  kindly 
negative  to  both  bachelor  and  widower,  and  died,  as  she 
had  lived,  the  beloved  maiden  "Auntie"  of  numerous 
nieces  and  nephews. 

Before  transcribing  other  passages  from  the  same  letter 
— one  of  unusual  length  even  for  that  epistolary  age — 
I  must  retrace  my  steps  to  pick  up  the  first  thread  of  what 
was  in  time  to  thicken  into  a  "cord  of  stronger  twine." 

When  I  was  sixteen  I  began  to  write  a  book.     It  was  a 

238 


HOW    "ALONE"    CAME     TO     BE 

school-girl's  story — a  picture  crudely  done,  but  as  truth- 
ful as  I  could  make  it — of  what  was  going  on  in  the  small 
world  I  thought  large,  and  every  personage  who  figured 
in  it  was  a  portrait.  In  that  book  I  lived  and  moved,  and 
had  my  inmost  being  for  that  year.  I  spoke  to  nobody 
of  what  I  was  doing.  The  shrinking  from  confiding  to  my 
nearest  and  dearest  what  I  was  writing,  was  reluctance  un- 
feigned and  unconquerable  in  the  case  of  this,  my  best- 
beloved  brain-child.  None  of  my  own  household  ques- 
tioned me  as  to  what  went  on  in  the  hours  spent  in  my 
"study,"  as  the  corner,  or  closet,  or  room  where  I  planted 
myself  and  desk,  was  named.  We  had  a  way  of  respecting 
one  another's  eccentricities  that  had  no  insignificant  share 
in  maintaining  the  harmony  which  earned  for  ours  the 
reputation  of  a  singularly  happy  family. 

I  was  allowed  to  plan  my  day's  work,  so  long  as  it  did 
not  impinge  upon  the  rights  or  convenience  of  the  rest. 
Directly  after  breakfast,  I  called  my  two  willing  little  pupil- 
sisters  to  their  lessons.  The  rock  and  shoals  of  threatened 
financial  disaster  that  menaced  our  home  for  a  while,  were 
safely  overpast  by  now.  Wre  were  once  more  in  smooth 
water,  and  sacrifices  might  be  remitted.  I  continued  to 
teach  my  little  maids  for  sheer  love  of  them,  and  of  seeing 
their  minds  grow.  Both  were  bright  and  docile.  Alice 
had  an  intellect  of  uncommon  strength  and  of  a  remarkably 
original  cast.  It  was  a  delight  to  instruct  her  for  some 
years.    After  that,  we  studied  together. 

Our  "  school-time "  lasted  from  nine  until  one.  I  never 
emerged  from  the  study  until  three — the  universal  dinner- 
hour  in  Richmond.  If  visitors  called,  as  often  happened, 
my  mother  and  sister  excused  me.  In  the  afternoon  we 
went  out  together,  making  calls,  or  walking,  or  driving. 
In  the  evening  there  was  usually  company,  or  we  practised 
with  piano  and  flute,  and,  as  Herbert  grew  old  enough  to 
join   our  "band,"  he  brought  in  his  guitar,  or  we  met  in 

239 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"the  chamber,"  and  one  read  aloud  in  the  sweet  old  way 
while  the  others  wrought  with  needle  and  pencil  and  draw- 
ing-board. This  was  the  routine  varied  by  occasional  con- 
certs and  parties.  Now  and  then,  I  got  away  from  the 
group  and  wrote  until  midnight. 

In  1853  the  Southern  Era,  a  semi-literary  weekly  owned 
and  run  by  the  then  powerful  and  popular  "Sons  of  Tem- 
perance," offered  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  for  the  best  tem- 
perance serial  of  a  given  length.  I  had  written  at  sixteen, 
and  recast  it  at  eighteen,  a  story  entitled  "Marrying 
Through  Prudential  Motives,"  and  sent  it  secretly  to 
Godey's  Magazine.  It  bore  the  signature  of  "Mary  Vale" 
— a  veiled  suggestion  of  my  real  name.  For  four  years  I 
heard  nothing  of  the  waif.  I  had  had  experiences  enough 
of  the  same  kind  to  dishearten  a  vain  or  a  timorous  writer. 
It  was  balm  to  my  mortified  soul  to  reflect  that  nobody 
was  the  wiser  for  the  ventures  and  the  failures. 

So  I  set  my  pen  in  rest,  and  went  in  for  the  prize ;  less, 
I  avow,  for  the  fifty  dollars  than  for  the  reward  for  seeing 
my  ambitious  bantling  in  print.  So  faint  and  few  were  my 
expectations  of  this  consummation,  that  I  went  off  to 
Boston  for  the  summer,  without  intimating  to  any  one 
the  audacious  cast  I  had  made.  I  had  been  with  my 
cousins  six  weeks  when  my  mother  sent  me  a  copy  of  the 
Southern  Era,  containing  what  she  said  in  a  letter  by  the 
same  mail,  "promised  to  be  the  best  serial  it  had  pub- 
lished." I  opened  the  letter  first,  and  tore  the  wrapper 
from  the  paper  carelessly. 

How  it  leaped  at  me  from  the  outermost  page! 

OUR  PRIZE  STORY! 

KATE  HARPER 

By  Marion  Harland 

240 


HOW    "ALONE"     CAME     TO     BE 

All  set  up  in  what  we  christened  in  the  last  quarter- 
century,  "scare-heads." 

As  I  learned  later  from  home-letters,  the  editor,  after 
advertising  vainly  for  the  author's  address,  had  published 
without  waiting  for  it.  I  wrote  home  that  night  to  my 
father,  pouring  out  the  whole  revelation,  and  stipulating 
that  the  secret  should  be  kept  among  ourselves. 

"Marion  Harland"  was,  again,  a  hint  of  my  name,  so 
covert  that  it  was  not  guessed  at  by  readers  in  general. 
The  editor,  an  acquaintance  of  my  father,  was  informed 
of  my  right  to  draw  the  money.  I  continued  to  send  tales 
and  poems  to  him  for  two  years,  and  preserved  my  in- 
cognito. 

In  the  late  spring  of  1853,  "Mea,"  Herbert,  and  I  were 
sitting  in  the  parlor  on  a  wild  night  when  it  rained  as  rain 
falls  nowhere  else  as  in  the  seven-hilled  city.  My  com- 
panions had  their  magazines.  Mea's,  as  I  well  recollect, 
was  Harper's  New  Monthly;  my  brother  had  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger.  Ned  Rhodes  had  taken  Harper's  for 
me  from  the  very  first  issue.  My  father  subscribed  con- 
scientiously for  the  Messenger  to  encourage  Southern 
literature.  All  right-minded  Virginians  acknowledged  the 
duty  of  extending  such  encouragement  to  the  extent  of 
the  subscription  price  of  "native  productions." 

I  had  dragged  out  the  rough  copy  of  my  book  from  the 
bottom  of  my  desk  that  day,  and  was  now  looking  it  over 
at  a  table  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace.  Chancing  upon  the 
page  describing  Celestia  Pratt's  entrance  upon  school-life, 
I  laughed  aloud. 

"What  is  it?"  queried  my  sister,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

"See  if  you  know  her,"  I  responded,  and  read  out  the 
scene.     She  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"To  the  life!"  she  pronounced.     "Go  on!" 

I  finished  the  chapter,  and  the  two  resumed  their  maga- 
zines.    Presently  Herbert  tossed  his  aside. 

241 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I  say!"  with  boyish  impetuosity.  "This  is  stupid  after 
what  you  gave  us.  Haven't  you  'anything  more  of  the 
same  sort?'" 

It  was  a  slang  phrase  of  the  day. 

It  was  the  "Open  Sesame"  of  my  literary  life. 

They  kept  me  reading  until  nearly  midnight,  dipping  in 
here  for  a  scene,  there  for  a  character-sketch,  until  my 
voice  gave  out. 

I  began  rewriting  Alone  next  day,  and  we  welcomed 
stormy  evenings  for  the  next  two  months.  When  the  MS. 
was  ready  for  the  press,  I  wrote  the  "Dedication  to  my 
Brother  and  Sister"  as  a  pleasant  surprise  to  my  generous 
critics.    They  did  not  suspect  it  until  they  read  it  in  print. 

Getting  the  work  into  print  was  not  so  easy  as  the  eager 
praises  of  my  small  audience  might  have  inclined  me  to 
expect.  The  principal  book-store  in  Richmond  at  that 
time  was  owned  by  Adolphus  Morris,  a  warm  personal 
friend  of  my  father.  The  two  had  been  intimate  for  years, 
and  the  families  of  the  friends  maintained  most  cordial 
relations.  Yet  it  was  with  sore  and  palpable  quakings  of 
heart  that  I  betook  myself  to  the  office  of  the  man  who 
took  on  dignity  as  a  prospective  publisher,  and  laid  bare 
my  project.  It  was  positive  pain  to  tell  him  that  I  had 
been  writing  under  divers  signatures  for  the  press  since 
I  was  fourteen.  The  task  grew  harder  as  the  judicial  look, 
I  have  learned  to  know  since  as  the  publisher's  perfunctory 
guise,  crept  over  the  handsome  face.  When  I  owned,  with 
blushes  that  scorched  my  hair,  to  the  authorship  of  the 
"Robert  Remer"  series,  and  of  the  prize  story  in  the  Era, 
he  said  frankly  and  coolly  that  he  "had  never  read  either." 
He  "fancied  that  he  had  heard  Mrs.  Morris  speak  of  the 
Remer  papers.     Religious — were  they  not?" 

He  liked  me,  and  his  pretty  wife  (who  had  far  more 
brains  and  vivacity  than  he)  had  made  a  pet  of  me.  He 
honored  my  father,  and  was  under  business  obligations  to 

242 


HOW    "ALONE"    CAME     TO     BE 

him.  I  was  conscious,  while  I  labored  away  at  my  share 
in  my  first  business  interview,  that  he  lent  kindly  heed  to 
me  for  these  reasons,  and  not  that  he  had  the  smallest 
grain  of  faith  in  the  merits  of  my  work.  I  was  a  child  in 
his  sight,  and  he  would  humor  my  whim. 

"I  am  willing  to  submit  your  manuscript  to  my  reader," 
he  said,  at  last. 

I  looked  the  blank  ignorance  I  felt.  He  explained 
patronizingly.  He  had  patronized  me  from  the  moment 
I  said  that  I  had  written  a  book.  I  have  become  familiar 
with  this  phase  of  publisherhood,  also,  since  that  awful 
day. 

''John  R.  T.  reads  all  my  manuscripts!"  fell  upon  my 
ear  like  a  trickle  of  boiling  lead.  "Send  it  down  when  it 
is  ready,  and  I  will  put  it  into  his  hands.  You  know,  I 
suppose,  that  everything  intended  for  printing  must  be 
written  on  one  side  of  the  paper?" 

I  answered  meekly  that  I  had  heard  as  much,  bade  him 
"Good  morning!"  and  crept  homeward,  humbled  to  the 
dust. 

"John  R.  T.!"  (Nobody  ever  left  out  the  "R."  in 
speaking  of  him,  and  nobody,  so  far  as  I  ever  heard,  knew 
for  what  it  stood.) 

He  was  the  bright  son  of  a  worthy  citizen;  had  been 
graduated  at  the  University  of  Virginia;  studied  at  the 
law,  and  entered  the  editorial  profession  as  manager-in- 
chief,  etc.,  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  He  had 
social  ambitions,  and  had  succeeded  in  acquiring  a  sort 
of  world-weary  air,  and  a  gentle  languor  of  tone  and  bear- 
ing which  might  have  been  copied  from  D' Israeli's  Young 
Duke,  a  book  in  high  favor  in  aristocratic  circles.  I  never 
saw  "Johnny" — as  graceless  youths  who  went  to  school 
with  him  grieved  him  to  the  heart  by  calling  him  on  the 
street— -without  thinking  of  the  novel.  Like  most  cari- 
catures, the  likeness  was  unmistakable.  , 

17  243 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

And  into  the  hands  of  this  "reader"  I  was  to  commit 
my  "brain-child!"  I  cried  out  against  the  act  in  such 
terms  as  these,  and  stronger,  in  relating  the  substance  of 
the  interview  to  my  father. 

"Be sensible,  little  girl !  Keep  a  cool  head !"  he  counselled. 
"Business  is  business.  And  I  suppose  John  R.  understands 
his.  I  will  take  the  manuscript  to  Morris  myself  to- 
morrow." 

"And  make  him  comprehend,"  I  interjected,  "that  I 
do  not  shirk  criticism.  I  see  the  faults  of  my  book.  If  I 
were  sure  that  it  would  be  judged  fairly,  I  wouldn't  mind 
it  so  much." 

The  reader  kept  the  manuscript  two  months..  Then  my 
father  wrote  a  civil  demand  to  Mr.  Morris  for  the  return  of 
the  work.  I  was  too  sick  of  soul  to  lift  a  finger  to  reclaim 
what  I  was  persuaded  was  predestined  to  be  a  dead  failure. 
Two  days  later  the  bulky  parcel  came  back.  Mr.  Morris 
had  enclosed  with  it  the  reader's  opinion: 

"I  regret  that  the  young  author's  anxiety  to  regain  pos- 
session of  her  bantling  has  prevented  me  from  reading 
more  than  a  few  pages  of  the  story.  Judging  from  what 
I  have  read,  however,  I  should  not  advise  you  to  publish 
it  upon  speculation." 

I  laid  the  note  before  my  father  after  supper  that  even- 
ing. Our  mother  had  early  inculcated  in  our  minds  the 
eminent  expediency  of  never  speaking  of  unpleasant  topics 
to  a  tired  and  hungry  man.  We  always  waited  until  bath, 
food,  and  rest  had  had  their  perfect  work  upon  the  head 
of  the  house.  He  leaned  back  in  his  arm-chair,  the  even- 
ing paper  at  his  elbow,  his  slippered  feet  to  the  glowing 
grate,  and  a  good  cigar  between  his  lips.  His  teeth  tight- 
ened suddenly  upon  it  when  he  heard  the  note.  It  was 
curt.  To  my  flayed  sensibilities,  it  was  brutal.  I  see, 
now,  that  it  was  businesslike  and  impersonal.  Were  I  a 
professional  "reader,"  I  should  indite  one  as  brief,  and 

244 


HOW    "ALONE"    CAME     TO     BE 

not  a  whit  more  sympathetic.  Alone  was  my  first  book, 
and  a  sentient  fraction  of  my  soul  and  heart. 

For  a  whole  minute  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but 
the  bubbling  song  of  the  soft  coal.  I  sat  upon  a  stool 
beside  my  confidant,  and,  having  passed  the  letter  up  to 
him,  my  head  sank  gradually  to  his  knee.  I  was  unspeak- 
ably miserable,  but  I  made  no  moan.  He  had  not  patience 
with  weak  wails  when  anything  remained  to  be  done.  His 
cigar  had  gone  out,  for  when  I  lifted  my  head  at  his  move- 
ment toward  the  lamp,  he  had  folded  the  scrap  of  paper 
into  a  spile,  and  was  lighting  it.  He  touched  the  dead 
cigar  with  the  flame,  and  drew  hard  upon  it  until  it  was  in 
working  order  before  he  said: 

"I  believe  in  that  book!  I  shall  send  it  back  to  Morris, 
to-morrow,  and  tell  him  to  bring  it  out  in  good  style  and 
send  the  bill  to  me." 

"But,"  I  gasped,  "you  may  lose  money  by  it!" 

"I  don't  think  so.  At  any  rate,  we  will  make  the  ex- 
periment." 


XXIV 

THE   DAWNING   OF   LITERARY  LIFE 

"January  28th,  1854. 

"My  very  dear  Friend, — I  wish  you  were  here  this  morn- 
ing! I  long  to  talk  with  you.  There  are  many  things  I 
cannot  commit  to  paper,  or  of  which  I  might  be  ashamed  as 
soon  as  they  were  written.  There  are  no  short-hand  and  long- 
tongued  reporters  at  our  face-to-face  confabulations. 

"Of  one  thing  I  will  give  you  a  hint:  Have  you  any  recol- 
lection of  a  certain  MS.,  portions  of  which  were  read  in  your 
hearing  last  spring?  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  were  to 
hear  something  of  it  before  long.  Keep  your  eyes  upon  the 
papers  for  a  few  weeks,  and  if  you  see  nothing  that  looks  like 
a  harbinger  of  the  advent,  just  conclude  that  I  have  changed 
my  mind  at  the  last  gasp  and  recalled  it.  For  it  has  gone  out 
of  my  ha?ids!  After  the  appearance  of  anything  that  looks 
that  way,  I  unseal  your  mouth. 

"Seriously,  I  have  much  pending  upon  this  venture.  The 
success  of  the  book  may  be  the  opening  of  the  path  I  cannot 
but  feel  that  Providence  has  marked  out  for  me. 

"As  it  is  a  Virginia  story,  Southerners  should  buy  it,  if  it 
has  no  other  merit.  My  misgivings  are  grave  and  many;  but 
my  advisers  urge  me  on,  and  notices  of  fugitive  articles  that 
have  appeared  in  Northern  and  Southern  papers  have  in- 
oculated me  with  a  little  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  their 
counsel. 

"I  had  not  meant  to  say  this,  or,  indeed,  to  mention  the 
matter  at  all,  but  as  the  day  of  publication  draws  near,  I  am, 
to  use  an  expressive  Yankeeism — 'fidgety/ 

"If  anything  I  have  said  savors  of  undue  solicitude  for  the 
bantling's  welfare,  recollect  that  I  am  the  mother.     One  thing 

246 


THE    DAWNING    OF    LITERARY    LIFE 

more:  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  advertisements.  If 
they  laud  the  work  too  highly,  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  'all  in 
the  way  of  trade/  and  that  booksellers  will  have  their  way. 

"Our  'Musical  Molasses  Stew'  came  off  last  night.  We  had 
a  grand  'time!'  Violin,  flute,  guitar,  piano — all  played  by 
masculine  amateurs,  and  a  chorus  of  men's  voices.  It  was 
'nae  sae  bad,'  as  the  Scotch  critic  said  of  Mrs.  Siddons's  acting. 
The  same  might  be  said  of  the  real  frolic  of  pulling  the  treacle. 
My  partner  was  a  young  Nova  Scotian — 'Blackader'  by  name 
— an  intelligent,  agreeable,  and  versatile  youth  who  entered 
gloriously  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion.  He  played  upon  the 
piano,  sang  treble,  tenor,  and  bass  by  turns,  and  pulled  and 
laughed  with  me  until  he  had  no  strength  left." 

I  was  but  feebly  convalescent  from  a  brief  illness  when, 
chancing  to  pick  up  the  latest  number  of  Godei/s  Maga- 
zine, and  fluttering  the  leaves  aimlessly,  my  eyes  rested 
upon  a  paragraph  in  the  "Editor's  Table." 

"Will  the  author  of  'Marrying  Through  Prudential 
Motives'  send  her  address  to  the  editor?" 

A  queer  story  followed.  The  tale,  sent  so  long  ago  to 
Mr.  Godey  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  it,  had  fallen  behind 
a  drawer  of  his  desk,  and  lain  there  for  three  years  and 
more.  When  it  finally  turned  up,  curiosity,  aroused  by 
its  disappearance  and  exhumation,  led  the  editor  to  read  it 
more  carefully  than  if  it  had  reached  him  through  ordinary 
channels.  He  liked  it,  published  it.  and  waited  to  hear 
from  the  author. 

By  some  mischance  that  particular  number  of  the 
"Lady's  Book"  had  escaped  my  notice.  The  story  was 
copied  into  an  English  periodical;  translated  from  this 
into  French,  and  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  channel. 
Another  British  monthly  "took  up  the  wondrous  tale" 
by  rendering  the  French  version  back  into  the  vernacular. 
In  this  guise  the  much-handled  bit  of  fiction  was  brought 
across  the  seas  by  The  Albion,  a  New  York  periodical  that 

247 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

published  only  English  "stuff."  Mr.  Godey  arraigned 
The  Albion  for  piracy,  and  the  truth  was  revealed  by 
degrees.  Richmond  papers  copied  the  odd  "happening" 
from  Northern,  and  Mr.  Morris  made  capital  of  it  in  ad- 
vertising the  forthcoming  novel. 

I  have  more  than  once  spoken  of  the  Richmond  of  that 
date  as  "provincial."  It  was  so  backward  in  literary 
enterprise  that  the  leading  bookseller  had  not  facilities  at 
his  command  for  publishing  the  book  committed  to  him. 

On  March  9,  1854,  I  wrote  to  my  Powhatan  corre- 
spondent: 

"Cousin  Joe  says  he  was  charged  by  you  to  get  'my  book/ 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  cannot  be  procured  as  yet.  Un- 
looked  for  delays  have  impeded  the  work  of  publication.  But, 
as  the  proofs  arrive  daily,  now,  I  trust  that  the  wheels  are 
beginning  to  run  more  smoothly.  It  is  printed  in  Philadel- 
phia, although  copyrighted  in  Richmond.  Not  a  printer  in 
this  city  could  finish  it  before  the  1st  of  May,  so  we  were 
forced  to  send  it  to  the  North.  .  .  . 

"You  will  read  and  like  it,  if  only  because  I  wrote  it. 
Whether  or  not  others  may  cavil  at  the  religious  tone,  and 
ridicule  the  simplicity  of  the  narrative,  remains  to  be  seen. 
Thus  far  I  have  had  encouragement  from  all  sides.  My  own 
fears  are  the  drawback  to  sanguine  expectation." 

The  actual  advent  of  Alone  was  a  surprise,  after  all  the 
waiting  and  wondering  that  left  the  heart  sick  with  hope 
deferred. 

I  was  setting  out  for  a  walk  one  balmy  May  morning, 
and  standing  on  the  front  porch  to  draw  on  my  gloves, 
when  Doctor  Haxall,  who  had  long  had  in  our  family  the 
sobriquet  of  "the  beloved  physician,"  reined  in  his  horses 
at  the  gate  and  called  out  that  he  was  "just  coming  to 
ask  me  to  drive  with  him."  He  had  often  done  the  like 
good  turn  to  me. 

I  was  not  robust,  and  he  had  watched  my  growth  with 

248 


THE    DAWNING    OF    LITERARY    LIFE 

more  than  professional  solicitude.  Had  he  been  of  my 
very  own  kindred,  he  could  not  have  been  kinder  or  dis- 
played more  active  interest  in  all  my  affairs — great  to  me 
and  small  to  him. 

" Headache?"  he  queried,  with  a  keen  look  at  my  pale 
face  when  I  was  seated  at  his  side. 

"Not  exactly!  I  think  the  warm  weather  makes  me 
languid." 

"More  likely  overexcited  nerves.  You  must  learn  to 
take  life  more  philosophically.     But  we  won't  talk  shop!" 

We  were  bowling  along  at  a  fine  rate.  The  doctor 
drove  fast,  blooded  horses,  and  liked  to  handle  the  ribbons 
himself.  The  day  was  deliriously  fresh,  the  air  sweet  with 
early  roses  and  honeysuckle.  I  called  his  attention,  in 
passing  Conway  Robinson's  grounds,  to  the  perfume  of 
violets  rising  in  almost  visible  waves  from  a  ravine  where 
the  grass  was  whitened  by  them  as  with  a  light  fall  of 
snow.  I  asked  no  questions  as  we  turned  down  Capitol 
Street,  and  thence  into  Main  Street.  Sometimes  I  sat  in 
the  carriage  while  he  paid  a  professional  call.  This  might 
be  his  intention  now.  We  brought  up  abruptly  at  Morris's 
book-store,  and  the  blessed  man  leaped  out  and  held  his 
hand  to  me.  He  probably  had  an  errand  there.  He 
handed  me  into  the  interior  in  his  brisk  way,  and  marched 
straight  up  to  Mr.  Morris,  who  advanced  to  meet  us. 

"Good-morning!  I  have  come  for  a  copy  of  this  young 
lady's  book!" 

If  I  had  ever  fainted,  I  should  have  swooned  on  the  spot. 

For  there,  in  heaps  and  heaps  upon  the  front  counter — 
in  bindings  of  dark-blue,  and  purple,  and  crimson,  and 
leaf-brown — lay  in  lordly  state,  portly  volumes,  on  the 
backs  of  which,  in  gleaming  gold  that  shimmered  and  shook 
before  my  incredulous  vision,  was  stamped: 

"Alone." 

I  saw,  through  the  sudden  dazzlement  of  the  whole  world 

249 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

about  me,  that  a  clerk  had  set  a  chair  for  me.  I  sat  down 
gratefully. 

Mr.  Morris  was  talking: 

"Opened  this  morning!  I  sent  six  copies  up  to  you. 
I  suppose  you  got  them?" 

"No!"  I  tried  so  hard  to  say  it  firmly  that  it  sounded 
careless.  I  would  have  added,  "I  did  not  know  it  was 
out,"  but  dared  not  attempt  a  sentence. 

Mr.  Morris  attended  us  to  the  door  to  point  to  placards 
a  porter  was  tacking  to  boards  put  there  for  that  express 
purpose: 

JUST  out  n 

ALONE! 
By   Marion   Harland 

The  doctor  nodded  satisfiedly  and  handed  me  into  the 
carriage.  In  taking  my  seat,  I  thought,  in  a  dull,  sick 
way,  of  Bruce  at  the  source  of  the  Nile.  I  had  had  day- 
dreams of  this  day  and  hour  a  thousand  times  in  the  last 
ten  years.  Of  how  I  should  walk  down-town  some  day,  and 
see  a  placard  at  this  very  door  bearing  the  title  of  a  novel 
written  and  bound,  and  lettered  in  gilt,  and  published! 
bearing  my  pen-name!  The  vision  was  a  reality;  the 
dream  was  a  triumphant  fulfilment.  And  I  was  sitting, 
unchanged,  and  non-appreciative,  by  the  dear  old  doctor, 
and  his  full,  cordial  tones  were  saying  of  the  portly  purple 
volume  lying  on  the  seat  between  us: 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  I  congratulate  you,  and  I  hope  a 
second  edition  will  be  called  for  within  six  months!" 

He  did  not  ply  me  with  questions.  He  may  not  have 
suspected  that  the  shock  had  numbed  my  ideas  and  stiff- 
ened my  tongue.  If  he  had,  he  could  not  have  borne  him- 
self more  tactfully.     He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  the 

250 


THE    DAWNING    OF    LITERARY    LIFE 

world  and  hobnobbed  with  really  distinguished  live 
authors.  It  would  not  have  been  possible  for  him  to 
enter  fully  into  what  this  day  was  to  me.  When  I  thought 
of  Bruce  and  the  Nile,  it  was  because  I  did  not  compre- 
hend that  the  very  magnitude  of  the  crisis  was  what  de- 
prived me  of  the  power  of  appreciating  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

No!  I  am  not  inclined  to  ridicule  the  unsophisticated 
girl  whose  emotions  were  too  mighty  for  speech  that  May 
noon,  and  to  minimize  what  excited  them.  Nothing  that 
wealth  or  fame  could  ever  offer  me  in  years  to  come  could 
stir  the  depths  of  heart  and  mind  as  they  were  upheaved 
in  that  supreme  hour. 

The  parcel  of  books  had  been  opened  and  the  contents 
examined,  by  the  time  I  got  home.  I  stole  past  the  open 
door  of  my  mother's  chamber,  where  she  and  Aunt  Rice, 
who  was  visiting  us,  and  Mea  were  chatting  vivaciously, 
and  betook  myself  to  my  room. 

When  my  sister  looked  me  up  at  dinner-time  I  told  her 
to  excuse  me  from  coming  down.  "The  heat  had  made 
me  giddy  and  headachy." 

She  bade  me  "lie  still.  She  would  send  me  a  cup  of 
tea." 

"I'll  leave  you  this  for  company,"  she  cooed,  laying 
the  book  tenderly  on  my  pillow.  "We  think  it  beau- 
tiful." 

With  that  she  went  out  softly,  shutting  me  in  with  my 
"beautiful"  first-born.  Mea  always  had  her  wits  within 
easy  call.     The  sixth  sense  was  born  within  her. 

I  saw  of  the  travail  of  my  soul  and  was  satisfied;  was 
repaid  a  thousandfold  for  months  of  toil  and  years  of 
waiting,  when  my  father  read  my  book.  He  did  not  go 
down-town  again  that  day,  after  coming  home  to  dinner. 
My  mother  told  me,  with  a  happy  break  in  her  laugh,  how 
he  had  hardly  touched  the  food  on  his  plate.    Aunt  Rice's 

251 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

pleasant  prattle  saved  the  situation  from  awkwardness 
when  he  lapsed  into  a  brown  study  and  talked  less  than 
he  ate.  When  dessert  was  brought  in,  he  excused  himself 
and  disappeared  from  general  view  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  The  door  of  "  the  chamber  "  to  which  he  with- 
drew was  fast  shut.  Nobody  disturbed  him  until  it  was 
too  dark  to  read  by  daylight.  My  mother  took  in  a 
lighted  lamp  and  set  it  on  the  table  by  him. 

"He  didn't  see  or  hear  me!"  was  her  report.  "He  is  a 
quarter  through  the  book  already,  and  he  doesn't  skip  a 
word." 

He  spent  just  fifteen  minutes  at  the  supper-table.  It 
was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  he  reached  the  last 
page. 

After  prayers  next  morning  he  put  his  arm  about  me 
and  held  me  fast  for  a  moment.  Then  he  kissed  me  very 
gravely. 

"I  was  right  about  that  book,  daughter!" 

That  was  all!  but  it  was,  to  my  speechless  self,  as  if  the 
morning  stars  had  sung  together  for  joy. 

I  record  here  and  now  what  I  did  not  know  in  the  spring- 
tide of  my  happiness.  I  never  had — I  shall  never  have— 
another  reader  like  him.  As  long  as  he  lived,  he  "  believed" 
in  me  and  in  my  work  with  a  sincerity  and  fervor  as  im- 
possible for  me  to  describe  as  it  can  be  for  any  outsider 
to  believe.  He  made  the  perusal  of  each  volume  (and  they 
numbered  a  score  before  he  died)  as  solemn  a  ceremony 
as  he  instituted  for  the  first.  His  absolute  absorption  in 
it  was  the  secret  jest  of  the  family,  but  they  respected  it 
at  heart.  When  he  talked  with  me  of  the  characters  that 
bore  part  in  my  stories,  he  treated  them  as  real  flesh-and- 
blood  entities.  He  found  fault  with  one,  and  sympathized 
with  another,  and  argued  with  a  third,  as  seeing  them  in 
propia  persona?.  It  was  strange — phenomenal — when  one 
considers  the  light  weight  of  the  literature  under  advise- 

252 


THE    DAWNING    OF    LITERARY    LIFE 

ment  and  the  mental  calibre  of  the  man.      To  me  it  was 
at  once  inspiration  and  my  exceeding  great  reward. 

"June  5th,  1854. 

"Dear  Effie, — From  a  formidable  pile  of  letters  of  good 
wishes  and  congratulation,  I  select  (not  happen  upon!)  your 
sweet,  affectionate  epistle,  every  word  of  which,  if  it  did  not 
come  from  your  heart,  went  straight  to  mine. 

"I  shall  never  be  a  literary  iceberg!  That  is  clear.  I  have 
had  a  surfeit  of  compliments  in  public  and  in  private,  but  a 
word  of  appreciation  from  a  true,  loving  friend  gives  me  more 
delicious  pleasure  than  all  else. 

"I  make  no  excuse  for  speaking  freely  to  you  of  what  you 
say  is  'near  akin;  to  you.  I  thank  you  heartily  for  owning 
the  relationship.  Two  editions  have  been  'run  off'  already, 
and  another  is  now  in  press — unprecedented  success  in  this 
part  of  the  world — or  so  they  tell  me.  Northern  papers  notice 
the  book  more  at  length  and  more  handsomely  than  does  the 
Richmond  press. 

''Of  the  sales  in  your  county,  I  know  nothing.  Oh  yes! 
C.  W.  told  Mr.  Rhodes  that  '  Miss  Virginia  Hawes's  novel  is 
having  a  tremendous  run  in  Powhatan.  Tre-men-dous,  sir! 
Why,  I  had  an  order  to  buy  a  copy  and  send  it  up,  myself,  sir!' 

"Isn't  that  characteristic?" 


XXV 

BROUGHT  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  FATE 

The  promised  visit  to  Powhatan  was  paid  in  July. 

"How  happily  the  days  of  Thalaba  went  by!" 

I  said  over  the  strangely  musical  line  to  myself  scores  of 
times  in  the  two  months  of  my  stay  in  the  dear  old  county. 
"Homestead,"  the  home  of  the  D.'s,  was  never  more  beau- 
tiful, and  5he  days  were  full  of  innocent  fun,  and  junketings 
without  number.  College  and  University  boys  were  at 
home,  and  city  people  were  nocking  to  the  country.  There 
were  walks,  drives,  "dining-days,"  early  and  late  horse- 
back parties,  setting  out  from  one  hospitable  house  before 
sunrise,  and  breakfasting  at  another  ten  or  twelve  miles 
away;  or,  better  yet,  leaving  home  at  sunset,  and  pacing, 
cantering,  and  galloping  (women  never  rode  trotting 
horses)  along  highroad  and  plantation  lane  to  a  house, 
buried  in  ancestral  woods,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  county, 
for  supper,  returning  by  the  light  of  the  harvest  moon, 
as  fresh  as  when  we  set  forth.  With  no  premonition  that 
this  was  to  be  the  most  eventful  summer  and  autumn  of 
my  hitherto  tranquil  life,  I  gave  myself  up,  wholly  and 
happily,  to  the  influences  that  sweetened  and  glorified  it. 
Late  in  August  I  resolved  rather  suddenly  to  go  home. 
My  sister  was  in  Boston;  my  father  would  not  leave  his 
business  for  so  much  as  a  week ;  my  mother  and  the  younger 
children  ought  to  be  in  the  country.  Since  she  would  not 
resign  my  father  to  what  she  spoke  of  as  "Fate  and  ser- 

254 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  FATE 

vants,"  I  would  throw  my  now  rejuvenated  body  into  the 
breach,  abide  by  the  stuff  and  her  husband  and  sons, 
while  she  took  a  sadly  needed  rest  with  old  friends  in 
Nottoway  County. 

Recollecting  how  persistently  I  clung  to  the  decision  in 
the  face  of  a  tempest  of  protest,  my  own  heart  in  secret 
league  with  the  protestants,  I  acknowledge  with  humble 
gratitude  the  guidance  of  the  "moving  finger  that  writes" 
out  the  destinies  we  think  to  control  for  ourselves. 

The  glow  of  the  halcyon  summer  had  not  passed  from 
my  spirit  when  I  wrote  to  my  late  hostess  two  days  after 
my  return: 

"Richmond,  August  29th,  1854. 

"My  Own  Friend, — I  said  'I  will  write  next  week/  but  it 
suits  my  feelings  and  convenience  to  write  this  morning. 

"In  the  first  place,  my  heart  is  so  full  of  happiness  that  it 
overflows  upon  and  toward  everybody  that  I  love,  and  don't 
you  dear  Homesteadians — yourself  and  Powhie,  especially — 
come  in  for  a  share? 

"Mrs.  Noble  was  very  pleasant,  but  the"  journey  was  a  bit 
tedious.  It  always  is!  Richmond  looked  enchanting  when 
at  last  the  spires  and  chimneys  appeared  upon  the  horizon, 
and  my  sweet  home  was  never  so  pretty  before. 

"Mother  had  planned  an  agreeable  surprise,  and  not  told 
me  that  the  painters  had  been  at  work  elsewhere  than  in  my 
room.  So  the  freshly  painted  shutters  and  the  white  window- 
facings  and  cornices,  contrasted  with  the  gray  walls,  were 
doubly  beautiful,  because  not  expected.  Then  Percy  came 
tumbling  down  the  steps,  clapping  his  hands  and  shouting  in 
glee,  and  Alice's  bright  smile  shone  upon  me  at  the  gate,  and 
mother  left  company  in  the  parlor  to  give  me  four  kisses — 
and  all  I  could  say  was,  'I  have  had  such  a  pleasant  visit, 
and  now  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  all!' 

"Father  could  not  be  coaxed  to  bed  that  night  until  one 
o'clock,  although  mother  reminded  him  that  he  had  a  head- 
ache. 

"'Never  mind!    Daughters  don't  come  home  every  night!' 

255 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"'But  this  one  will  be  tired  out!' 

"'Well,  she  may  sleep  late  to-morrow  morning.' 

"He  doesn't  know  how  lazy  I  have  grown  of  late. 

"I  am  surprised  to  find  vegetation  so  luxuriant  here.  My 
inquiries  concerning  the  'late  drought'  are  answered  by  a 
stare  of  amazement.  Rain  has  been  abundant  in  this  region. 
In  our  garden  the  vegetables  and  grape-vines  grow  rank  and 
tall.  And  as  for  flowers!  There  were  seven  bouquets  in  the 
parlor,  smiling  and  breathing  a  welcome.  Last  night  I  re- 
ceived one  per  rail  from  Horace  Lacy  (bless  his  soul!),  and 
Herbert  to-night  brought  up  another  and  a  magnificent, 
when  he  came  to  his  late  supper. 

"Mother  had  delicious  peaches  for  supper  the  night  I  got 
back,  but  advised  me  to  'eat  them  sparingly,  at  first.'  Yester- 
day I  forgot  her  caution,  and  I  think  I  am  the  better  for  the 
lapse.  Peaches,  watermelons,  apples,  sweet  potatoes,  etc, 
were  liberally  patronized  by  us  all.  The  cholera  'scare' 
seems  to  be  over.  Doctor  Haxall  advised  the  members  of 
our  family  to  make  no  change  in  their  diet  while  they  con- 
tinued well,  and  they  have  prospered  wonderfully  under  his 
regimen.  .  .  . 

"I  wish  I  had  time  to  tell  you  of  some  queer  letters  I  found 
waiting  for  me.  Father  would  not  forward  them,  'for  fear 
of  annoying  me.'  They  are  meant  to  be  complimentary,  one 
requesting  'some  particulars  of  your  birthplace,  education,' 
etc.     'Wish  he  may  get  them!' 

"Now,  dear,  forgive  this  egotistical  scrawl — written  as  fast 
as  fingers  can  scratch — but  just  seat  yourself  and  tell  me 
exactly  what  you  have  been  doing,  saying,  and  thinking  since 
I  left;  how  our  pet,  Powhie  (the  dear  old  scamp!),  is  thriving; 
and  the  state  of  your  mother's  health,  also  the  news  from 
The  Jungle. 

"Our  Heavenly  Father  bless  and  love  you,  my  darling!" 

We  packed  my  mother  and  her  younger  children  off  to 
the  country  the  first  of  September,  and  rejoiced  unselfishly 
that  they  had  escaped  the  fervid  heats  of  the  following 
week.    Our  house  was  deliciously  cool  by  comparison  with 

256 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  FATE 

the  sultriness  of  the  outer  world.  The  thick  walls  and 
lofty  ceilings  kept  the  temperature  at  an  equable  and  com- 
fortable point.  We  breakfasted  early,  and  by  nine  o'clock 
the  day  was  my  own — or  six  consecutive  hours  of  it. 

In  unconscious  imitation  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  who  be- 
gan Jane  Eyre  while  The  Professor  was  "plodding  his 
weary  round  from  publisher  to  publisher,"  I  had  begun 
another  book  by  the  time  Alone  was  turned  over  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Mr.  Morris's  "reader."  I  finished  the 
first  draught  on  the  forenoon  of  September  11th,  having 
wrought  at  it  with  the  fierce  joy  in  work  that  ever  comes 
to  me  after  a  season  of  absolute  or  comparative   idleness. 

I  was  very  weary  when  the  last  word  was  written: 

"Alma  was  asleep!" 

I  read  it  aloud  to  myself  in  the  safe  solitude  of  my  shaded 
library.  I  had  not  heard  then  that  Thackeray  slapped 
his  thigh  exultantly  after  describing  the  touch  of  pride 
Becky  felt  in  her  husband's  athletic  pummelling  of  her 
lover.     I  could  have  understood  it  fully  at  that  instant. 

"Thackeray,  my  boy,  that  is  a  stroke  of  genius!"  cried 
the  great  author,  aloud,  in  honest  pride. 

The  small  woman  writer  sat  wearily  back  in  her  chair, 
and  said — not  murmured:  "I  flatter  myself  that  is  a  neat 
touch!" 

Then  I  found  that  my  head  ached.  Moreover,  it  had 
a  strange,  empty  feeling.  I  compared  it  to  a  squeezed 
sponge.  I  likewise  reminded  myself  that  I  had  not  been 
out  of  the  house  for  two  days ;  that  my  father  had  shaken 
his  head  when  I  told  him  it  was  "too  hot  for  walking," 
warning  me  that  I  "must  not  throw  away  the  good  the 
country  had  done  for  me."  He  would  ask  me,  at  supper- 
time,  if  I  had  taken  the  admonition  to  heart. 

I  went  off  to  my  room,  bathed,  and  dressed  for  a  round 
of  calls.  This  I  proceeded  to  make,  keeping  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  street.    I  called  at  three  houses,  and  found  every- 

257 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

body  out.  The  sun  was  setting  when  I  stood  in  front  of 
my  mirror  on  my  return,  and  laid  aside  bonnet  and  mantle 
(we  called  it  a  "visite").  The  red  light  from  the  west 
shot  across  me  while  I  was  brushing  up  the  hair  the  hot 
dampness  had  laid  flat.  It  struck  me  suddenly  that  I  was 
looking  rather  well.  I  wore  what  we  knew  as  a  "spencer" 
of  thin,  dotted  white  muslin.  It  would  be  a  "shirt-waist" 
to-day.  It  was  belted  at  what  was  then  a  slim  waist 
above  a  skirt  of  "changeable"  silk.  Herbert  had  said  it 
"reminded  him  of  a  pale  sunrise,"  but  there  were  faint 
green  reflections  among  shimmering  pinks.  There  must 
be  somebody  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  upon  whom 
I  might  call  while  I  was  dressed  to  go  out.  A  dart  of  self- 
reproach  followed  swiftly  upon  the  thought. 

My  old  and  favorite  tutor,  Mr.  Howison,  had  broken 
down  in  health  two  years  after  accepting  a  call  to  his  first 
parish.  An  obstinate  affection  of  the  throat  made  preach- 
ing impracticable.  At  the  end  of  a  year  of  compulsory 
inaction,  he  resumed  the  practice  of  law  in  Richmond,  and 
within  another  twelve  months  married  the  woman  he  had 
sought  and  won  before  his  illness.  They  lived  in  a  pleasant 
house  upon  the  next  street,  so  near  that  we  often  "ran 
around"  to  see  each  other.  "Mary's"  younger  sister 
had  died  during  my  absence  from  home,  and  as  I 
reminded  myself,  now,  I  ought  to  have  called  before 
this. 

Half  a  square  from  her  door,  I  recalled  that  the  young 
clergyman  who  was  supplying  Doctor  Hoge's  pulpit  while 
he  was  abroad,  and  whom  I  had  heard  preach  last  Sun- 
day, was  staying  at  the  Howison's.  It  was  not  right,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  church,  that  he  should  go  to  a  hotel,  and 
since  he  would  go  nowhere  except  as  a  boarder,  the  Howi- 
sons  had  opened  door  and  hearts  to  make  him  at  home 
in  his  temporary  charge.  He  had  given  us  an  interesting 
sermon  on  Sunday,  and  made  a  pleasing  impression  gen- 

258 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  FATE 

erally.  I  had  not  thought  of  him  since,  until  almost  at  the 
gate  of  my  friends'  house.     Then  I  said,  inly: 

"Should  the  youthful  divine  be  hanging  about  the  porch 
or  yard,  I'll  walk  on  unconcernedly  and  postpone  the  call." 

Being  familiar  with  the  ways  of  young  sprigs  of  divinity, 
and  having  over  twenty  blood-relatives  who  had  the  right 
to  prefix  their  baptismal  names  by  "The  Reverend,"  I 
had  no  especial  fondness  for  the  brand.  Furthermore, 
three  callow  clerics  and  one  full-fledged  had  already  in- 
vited me  to  share  parsonage  and  poverty  with  them.  For 
all  I  had  one  and  the  same  reply.  It  might  be  my  pre- 
destined lot,  as  certain  anxious  friends  began  to  hint,  to 
live  out  my  earthly  days  in  single  blessedness;  and,  if  the 
ancient  anti-race-suicide  apostles  were  to  be  credited, 
then  to  lead  apes  in  Hades  for  an  indefinite  period.  I 
would  risk  the  terrors  of  both  states  sooner  than  take  upon 
me  the  duties  and  liabilities  of  a  minister's  wife.  Upon 
that  I  was  determined. 

The  youthful  divine  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Nor  did  he 
show  up  during  the  half-hour  I  passed  with  the  Howisons. 
They  proposed  walking  home  with  me  when  I  arose  to  go. 
Just  outside  the  gate  we  espied  a  tall  figure  striding  up 
the  street,  swinging  his  cane  in  very  unclerical  style.  Mr. 
Howison  stopped. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Terhune!     I  was  hoping  you  might  join  us." 

Then  he  introduced  him  to  me.  Of  course,  he  asked  per- 
mission to  accompany  us,  and  we  four  strolled  abreast 
through  the  twilight  of  the  embowered  street.  I  had 
known  the  sister  of  Mr.  Terhune,  who,  as  the  widow  of 
Doctor  Hoge's  most  intimate  friend,  was  a  frequent  visitor 
to  Richmond.  I  asked  civilly  after  her,  and  was  answered 
as  civilly.  We  remarked  upon  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the 
fine  sunset;  then  we  were  at  our  gate,  where  my  father  and 
brother  were  looking  out  for  me. 

My  escorts  declined  the  invitation  to  enter  garden  and 

18  259 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

house;  Mr.  Howison  passed  over  to  me  a  big  bunch  of  roses 
he  had  gathered  from  his  garden  and  brought  with  him, 
and,  having  exchanged  "Good-evenings,"  we  three  lingered 
at  the  gate  to  admire  the  flowers.  There  was  no  finer  col- 
lection of  roses  in  any  private  garden  in  town  than  those 
which  were  the  lawyer's  pets  and  pride.  My  face  was 
buried  in  the  cool  deliciousness  of  my  bouquet  when, 
through  the  perfect  stillness  of  the  evening,  we  heard  our 
new  acquaintance  say: 

"Your  friend,  Miss  Hawes,  walks  well." 

He  had,  as  we  had  noticed  on  Sunday,  a  voice  of  mar- 
vellous compass,  with  peculiar  "carrying"  qualities.  He 
had  not  spoken  more  loudly  than  his  companions,  and, 
having  reached  the  corner  of  the  street,  he  fancied  himself 
beyond  earshot.     Every  word  floated  back  to  us. 

We  laughed — all  three  of  us.     Then  I  said,  deliberately: 

"If  that  man  ever  asks  me  to  marry  him,  I  shall  have 
to  do  it!  I  vowed  solemnly,  long  ago,  to  marry  the  first 
man  who  thinks  me  handsome,  if  he  should  give  me  the 
chance.     Let  us  hope  this  one  won't!" 

"Amen!"  responded  my  hearers,  my  father  adding,  "His 
cloth  rules  him  out." 

It  may  have  been  a  week  later  in  the  season  that  I  was 
strolling  down  Broad  Street  in  company  with  "Tom" 
Baxter,  Mr.  Rhodes's  chummiest  crony.  He  had  over- 
taken me  a  few  squares  farther  up-town,  and  was  begging 
me,  in  the  naive  way  most  girls  found  bewitching,  to  take 
a  turning  that  would  lead  us  by  an  office  where  he  was  to 
leave  a  paper  he  had  promised  to  deliver  at  that  hour. 

"Then,"  he  pursued,  with  the  same  refreshing  simplicity 
of  tone  and  look,  "there  will  be  nothing  to  hinder  me  from 
going  all  the  way  home  with  you." 

I  refused  point-blank,  and  he  detained  me  for  a  minute 
at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  entreating  and  arguing,  until 
I  cut  the  nonsense  short  by  saying  that  I  had  an  engage- 

260 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  FATE 

ment  which  I  must  keep  without  regard  to  his  convenience, 
and  walked  on.  Tom  was  an  amusing  fellow,  and  hand- 
some enough  to  win  forgiveness  for  his  absurdities.  I  was 
smiling  to  myself  in  the  recollection  of  the  little  farce, 
when  I  met,  face  to  face,  but  not  eye  to  eye — for  we  were 
both  looking  at  the  pavement  —  the  man  who  had  said 
that  I  walked  well.  He  stepped  aside  hurriedly;  the  hand 
that  swung  the  cane  went  up  to  his  hat,  and  we  went  our 
separate  ways. 

That  evening  I  was  surprised  to  receive  a  call  from  our 
pastor  pro  tempore.  He  told  me,  months  afterward,  that 
he  was  homesick  and  lonely  on  that  particular  afternoon. 
At  least  two-thirds  of  the  best  people  in  the  parish  were 
out  of  town,  and  he  found  little  to  interest  him  in  those 
he  met  socially. 

"You  smiled  in  such  a  genial  fashion  when  we  met  on 
that  blessed  corner  that  I  felt  better  at  once.  The  recol- 
lection of  that  friendly  look  gave  me  courage  to  call,  out 
of  hand." 

Whereupon,  I  brought  sentimentality  down  on  the  run 
by  asking  if  he  had  ever  heard  the  negro  proverb,  "Fired 
at  the  blackbird  and  hit  the  crow  "  ? 

"That  was  Tom  Baxter's  smile — not  yours!" 


XXVI 

LITERARY  WELL-WISHERS  —  GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE  —  MRS. 
SIGOURNEY — GRACE  GREENWOOD — H.  W.  LONGFELLOW — 
JAMES   REDPATH — "THE    WANDERING   JEW  " 

Authors  were  not  so  plentiful  then  as  to  attract  no  at- 
tention in  a  crowd  of  non-literary  people.  Men  and  women 
who  had  climbed  the  heights  had  leisure  to  glance  down 
at  those  nearer  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  to  send  back  a 
cheering  hail.  I  had  twenty  letters  from  George  D.  Pren- 
tice, known  of  all  men  as  the  friend  and  helper  of  youth- 
ful writers.  All  were  kind  and  encouraging.  By-and-by, 
they  were  fatherly  and  familiar.  As  when  I  lamented  that 
I  had  never  been  able  to  make  my  head  work  without  my 
heart,  he  responded,  "Hearts  without  heads  are  too  im- 
pulsive, sometimes  too  hot.  Heads  without  hearts  are  too 
cold.  Suppose  you  settle  the  matter  by  giving  the  heart 
into  my  keeping,  in  trust  for  the  happy  man  who  will  call 
for  it  some  day?" 

His  letters  during  the  war  were  tinged  with  sadness.  In 
one  he  wrote:  "My  whole  heart  is  one  throbbing  prayer 
to  the  God  of  Nations  that  He  will  have  mercy  upon  my 
beloved  country." 

In  reply  to  a  letter  of  sympathy  after  the  death  of  a 
gallant   young  son,  who  fell  on  the  battle-field,  he  said: 

"My  dear  boy  never  gave  me  a  pang  except  by  entering 

the  army  (in  obedience  to  what  he  felt  was  the  call  of  duty), 

and  in  dying.     A  nobler,  more  dutiful  son  never  gladdened 

a  father's  heart." 

262 


LITERARY    WELL-WISHERS 

Our  correspondence  was  continued  as  long  as  the  poet- 
editor  lived.  I  owe  him  much.  I  wish  I  had  made  him 
comprehend  how  much. 

Mrs.  Sigourney,  then  on  "the  retired  list"  of  American 
authors,  sent  me  a  copy  of  her  latest  volume  of  poems — 
A  Western  Home — and  three  or  four  letters  of  motherly 
counsel,  one  of  which  advised  me  to  take  certain  epochs 
of  American  history  as  foundation-stones  for  any  novels  I 
might  write  in  future,  and  bidding  me  "God-speed!" 

Grace  Greenwood  opened  a  correspondence  with  the 
younger  woman  who  had  admired  her  afar  off,  and  we 
kept  up  the  friendship  until  she  went  abroad  to  live,  re- 
suming our  intercourse  upon  her  return  to  New  York  in 
the  early  eighties. 

From  Mr.  Longfellow  I  had  two  letters.  One  told  me 
that  Mrs.  Longfellow  was  "reading  Alone  in  her  turn." 

"I  am  pleased  to  note  upon  the  title-page  of  my  copy, 
'Sixth  Edition.'  That  looks  very  like  a  guide-board  pointing 
to  Fame.  I  should  think  you  would  feel  as  does  the  traveller 
in  the  Tyrol  who  sees,  at  a  turn  in  the  rocky  pass,  a  finger-post 
with  the  inscription — 'To  Rome.'  Hoping  that  you  will  not 
be  molested  by  the  bandits  who  sometimes  infest  that  route, 
I  am  sincerely  yours,  Henry  W.  Longfellow." 

I  have  carried  the  letter,  word  for  word,  in  my  heart  for 
more  than  half  a  century.  A  patent  of  nobility  would  not 
have  brought  me  keener  and  more  exquisite  pleasure. 

Not  that  I  deceived  myself,  for  one  mad  hour,  with  the 
fancy  that  I  could  ever  gain  the  right  to  stand  for  one 
beatific  moment  on  a  level  with  the  immortals  whom  I 
worshipped.  In  the  first  flush  of  my  petty  triumph,  I  felt 
my  limitations.  The  appreciation  of  these  has  grown 
upon  me  with  each  succeeding  year.  "Fred"  Cozzens,  the 
"  Sparrowgrass "  of  humorous  literature,  said  to  me  once 
when  I  expressed  something  of  this  conviction; 

263 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Yet  you  occupy  an  important  niche." 

I  replied  in  all  sincerity:  "I  know  my  place.  But  the 
niche  is  small,  and  it  is  not  high  up.  All  that  I  can  hope 
is  to  fill  it  worthily,  such  as  it  is." 

The  history  of  one  bulky  packet  of  letters  takes  me  back 
to  the  orderly  progress  of  my  storjr,  and  to  the  most  singu- 
lar and  romantic  episode  of  that  first  year  of  confessedly 
literary  life. 

Alone  had  been  out  in  the  world  about  three  months, 
when  I  received  a  letter  from  a  stranger,  postmarked 
"Baltimore,"  and  bearing  the  letter-head  of  a  daily  paper 
published  in  that  city.  The  signature  was  "James  Red- 
path."  The  writer  related  briefly  that,  chancing  to  go 
into  Morris's  book-store  while  on  a  visit  to  Richmond,  he 
had  had  from  the  publisher  a  copy  of  my  book,  and  read  it. 
He  went  on  to  say: 

"It  is  full  of  faults,  as  you  will  discover  for  yourself  in 
time.  Personally,  I  may  remark,  that  I  detest  both  your 
politics  and  your  theology.  All  the  same,  you  will  make 
your  mark  upon  the  age.  In  the  full  persuasion  of  this,  I 
write  to  pledge  myself  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  forward  your 
literary  interests.  I  am  not  on  the  staff  of  the  Baltimore 
paper,  although  now  visiting  the  editor-in-chief.  But  I  have 
influence  in  more  than  one  quarter,  and  you  will  hear  from 
me  again." 

I  laid  the  queer  epistle  before  my  father,  and  we  agreed 
that  my  outspoken  critic  was  slightly  demented.  I  was 
already  used  to  odd  communications  from  odd  people,  some 
from  anonymous  admirers,  some  from  reviewers,  pro- 
fessional and  amateur,  who  sought  to  "do  me  good,"  after 
the  disinterested  style  of  the  guild. 

I  was  therefore  unprepared  for  the  strenuous  manner 
in  which  Mr.  James  Redpath  proceeded  to  keep  his  pledge. 
Not  a  week  passed  in  which  he  did  not  send  me  a  clipping 

264 


JAMES     REDPATH 

from  some  paper,  containing  a  direct  or  incidental  notice 
of  my  book,  or  work,  or  personality.  Now  he  was  in  New 
Orleans,  writing  fiery  Southern  editorials,  and  insinuating 
into  the  body  of  the  same,  adroit  mention  of  the  rising 
Southern  author.  Now  he  slipped  into  a  Cincinnati  paper 
a  poem  taken  from  Alone,  with  a  line  or  two,  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  novel  and  the  author ;  then  a  fierce  attack  upon 
the  "detested  politics  and  theology"  flamed  among  book- 
notices  in  a  Buffalo  journal,  tempered  by  regrets  that  "real 
talent  should  be  grossly  perverted  by  sectional  prejudice 
and  superstition."  Anon,  a  clever  review  in  a  Boston 
paper  pleased  my  friends  in  the  classic  city  so  much  that 
they  sent  a  marked  cop}'  to  me,  not  dreaming  that  I  had 
already  had  the  critique,  with  the  now  familiar  "J.  R." 
scrawled  in  the  margin.  The  climax  of  the  melodrama 
was  gained  during  the  struggle  over  "bleeding  Kansas"  in 
1855.  A  hurried  note  from  the  near  neighborhood  of 
Leavenworth  informed  me  that  a  pro-slavery  force,  double 
the  size  of  the  abolitionist  militia  gathered  to  resist  it,  was 
advancing  upon  the  position  held  by  the  latter.  My  daunt- 
less knight  wrote: 

"Farewell,  dear  and  noble  lady!  If  I  am  not  killed  in  the 
fight,  you  will  hear  from  me  again  and  again.  Should  I  be 
translated  to  another  sphere,  I  shall  still  (if  possible)  rap 
back  notices  of  your  work  through  the  Fox  sisters  or  other 
mediums." 

Hearing  nothing  more  of  or  from  him  for  two  months,  I 
was  really  unhappy  in  the  apprehension  that  his  worst 
fears  had  been  realized.  I  had  grown  to  like  him,  and  my 
gratitude  for  his  disinterested  championship  was  warm  and 
deep.  My  father  expressed  his  conviction  that  the  eccen- 
tric was  the  Wandering  Jew,  and  predicted  his  safe  de- 
liverance from  the  pro-slavery  hordes,  and  reappearance 
in  somebody's  editorial  columns.     His  prophecy  was  ful- 

265 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

filled  in  a  long  report  in  a  Philadelphia  sheet  of  a  meeting 
with  the  "new  star  of  the  South,"  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
church  attended  b}'  the  aforesaid.  Nothing  that  escaped 
my  lips  was  set  down,  but  my  dress  and  appearance,  my 
conversational  powers  and  deportment  were  painted  in 
glowing  colors,  the  veracious  portraiture  concluding  with 
the  intelligence  that  I  would  shortly  be  married  to  the  son 
of  a  former  Governor  of  Virginia — "a  man,  who,  despite 
his  youth,  has  already  distinguished  himself  in  the  political 
arena,  and  we  are  glad  to  say,  in  the  Democratic  ranks." 

I  thought  my  father  would  have  an  apoplectic  fit  when 
he  got  to  that! 

"See  here,  my  child!  I  don't  presume  to  interfere  with 
Salathiel,  or  by  what  other  name  your  friend  may  choose 
to  call  himself,  and  there  are  all  manner  of  tricks  in  the 
trade  editorial,  but  this  is  going  a  little  too  far.  He  sha'n't 
marry  you  off,  without  your  consent — and  to  a  Democrat!" 

I  had  the  same  idea,  and  hearing  directly  from  Mr.  Red- 
path  soon  afterward,  I  said  as  much,  as  kindly  as  I  could. 
The  remonstrance  elicited  a  gentlemanly  rejoinder.  While 
the  style  of  the  "report"  was  "mere  newspaper  lingo,"  he 
claimed  that  the  framework  was  built  by  an  attache  of  the 
Philadelphia  daily,  whom  he  (Redpath)  had  commissioned 
to  glean  all  he  could  of  my  appearance,  etc.,  during  a  flying 
trip  to  Richmond.  The  young  fellow  had  written  the 
article  and  sent  it  to  press  without  submitting  it  to  Sala- 
thiel. The  like  should  not  occur  again.  In  my  answer  to 
the  apology,  I  expressed  my  profound  sense  of  gratitude 
to  my  advocate,  and  confessed  my  inability  to  divine  the 
motive  power  of  benefactions  so  numerous  and  unsolicited. 
His  reply  deepened  the  mystery: 

"Your  book  held  me  back  from  infidelity.  Chapter 
Sixteenth  saved  my  life.  Now  that  you  know  thus  much, 
we  will,  if  you  please,  have  no  more  talk  on  your  part  of 
gratitude." 

266 


"THE    WANDERING    JEW" 

Five  years  elapsed  between  the  receipt  of  that  first  note 
signed  "James  Redpath,"  and  the  explanation  of  what 
followed.  I  may  relate  here,  in  a  few  sentences,  what  he 
wrote  to  me  at  length,  and  what  was  published  in  an  ap- 
preciative biographical  sketch  written  by  a  personal  friend 
after  his  death. 

He  was  born  in  Scotland;  emigrated  in  early  manhood 
to  America,  and  took  up  journalistic  work.  Although  suc- 
cessful for  a  while,  a  series  of  misfortunes  made  of  him  a 
misanthropic  wanderer.  His  brilliant  talents  and  ex- 
perience found  work  and  friends  wherever  he  went,  and  he 
remained  nowhere  long.  Disappointed  in  certain  enter- 
prises upon  which  he  had  fixed  his  mind  and  expended  his 
best  energies,  he  found  himself  in  Richmond,  with  but  one 
purpose  in  his  soul.  He  would  be  lost  to  all  who  knew 
him,  and  leave  no  trace  of  the  failure  he  believed  himself 
to  be.  He  put  a  pistol  in  his  pocket  and  set  out  for  Holly- 
wood Cemetery.  There  were  sequestered  glens  there,  then, 
and  lonely  thickets  into  which  a  world-beaten  man  could 
crawl  to  die.  On  the  way  up-town,  he  stopped  at  the  book- 
store and  fell  into  talk  with  the  proprietor,  who,  on  learning 
the  stranger's  profession,  handed  him  the  lately-published 
novel.  Arrived  at  the  cemetery,  Redpath  was  disap- 
pointed to  see  the  roads  and  paths  gay  with  carriages, 
pedestrians,  and  riding-parties.  He  would  wait  until  twi- 
light sent  them  back  to  town.  He  lay  down  upon  the  turf 
on  a  knoll  commanding  a  view  of  the  beautiful  city  and 
the  river,  took  out  his  book  and  began  reading  to  while 
away  the  hours  that  would  bring  quiet  and  solitude.  The 
sun  was  high,  still.  He  had  the  editorial  knack  of  rapid 
reading.  The  dew  was  beginning  to  fall  as  he  finished  the 
narrative  of  the  interrupted  duel  in  the  sixteenth  chapter. 

I  believed  then,  and  I  am  yet  more  sure,  now,  that  other 
influences  than  the  crude  story  told  by  one  whose  ex- 
perience of  life  was  that  of  a  child  by  comparison  with  his, 

267 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wrought  upon  the  lonely  exile  during  the  still  hours  of  that 
perfect  autumnal  day.  It  suited  his  whim  to  think  that 
the  book  turned  his  thoughts  from  his  design  of  self- 
destruction. 

Before  he  slept  that  night  he  registered  a  vow — thus  he 
phrased  it  in  his  explanatory  letter — to  write  and  publish 
one  thousand  notices  of  the  book  that  had  saved  his  life. 

When  the  vow  was  fulfilled — and  not  until  then — did  I 
get  the  key  to  conduct  that  had  puzzled  me,  and  baffled 
the  conjectures  of  the  few  friends  to  whom  I  had  told  the 
tale. 

I  met  James  Redpath,  face  to  face,  but  once,  and  that 
was — if  my  memory  serves  me  aright — in  1874.  He  was 
in  Newark,  New  Jersey,  in  the  capacity  of  adviser-in-chief, 
or  backer,  of  a  friend  who  brought  a  party  of  Indians  from 
the  West  on  a  peaceful  mission  to  Washington  and  some  of 
the  principal  cities,  in  the  hope  of  exciting  philanthropic 
interest  in  their  advancement  in  civilization. 

"He  is  as  enthusiastic  in  faith  in  the  future  of  the  red- 
man  as  I  was  once  in  the  belief  that  the  negro  would  arise 
to  higher  levels,"  remarked  Salathiel,  with  a  smile  that 
ended  in  a  sigh.  "Heigho!  youth  is  prone  to  ideals  as  the 
sparks  to  fly  upward." 

Learning  that  I  was  in  the  opera-house  where  the  "show" 
was  held,  he  had  invited  me  into  his  private  stage-box, 
and  there,  out  of  sight  of  the  audience,  and  indifferent  to 
the  speech-making  and  singing  going  on,  on  the  stage,  we 
talked  for  an  hour  with  the  cordial  ease  of  old  friends. 
My  erst  knight-errant  was  a  well-mannered  gentleman, 
still  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  with  never  a  sign  of  the 
eccentric  "stray"  in  feature,  deportment,  or  the  agreeable 
modulations  of  his  voice.  He  told  me  of  his  wife.  He  had 
written  to  me  of  his  marriage  some  years  before.  She  was 
his  balance-wheel,  he  said.  I  recollect  that  he  likened  her 
to  Madam  Guyon.     At  the  close  of  the  entertainment,  we 

268 


"THE    WANDERING    JEW" 

shook  hands  cordially  and  exchanged  expressions  of  mutual 
regard.     We  never  met  again. 

How  much  or  how  little  I  was  indebted  to  him  for  the 
success  of  my  first  book,  I  am  unable  to  determine.  I  shall 
ever  cherish  the  recollection  of  his  generous  spirit  and  stead- 
fast adherence  to  his  vow  of  service,  as  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  gratifying  episodes  of  rny  authorly  career. 


XXVII 

MY  NORTHERN  KINSPEOPLE — "qUELQU'un"   AND    A   LIFE- 
LONG  FRIENDSHIP 

I  rewrote  the  new  book  that  winter,  reading  it,  chapter 
by  chapter,  aloud  to  my  father,  in  the  evening.  He  was  a 
judicious  critic,  and  I  need  not  repeat  here  how  earnest 
and  rapt  a  listener.  I  had  received  proposals  for  the  pub- 
lication of  my  "next  book"  from  six  Northern  publishers. 
In  the  spring  my  father  went  to  New  York  and  arranged 
for  the  preliminaries  with  the,  then,  flourishing  firm  of 
Derby  &  Jackson. 

It  was  brought  out  while  I  was  in  Boston  that  summer, 
under  the  title  of  The  Hidden  Path.  I  anticipate  dates  in 
jotting  down  here  that  I  had  my  first  taste  of  professional 
envy  in  connection  with  this  book. 

My  journeying  homeward  in  September  was  broken  by 
a  fortnight's  stay  at  the  hospitable  abode  of  the  Derbys 
in  Yonkers.  I  was  at  a  reception  in  New  York  one  even- 
ing, when  my  unfortunately  acute  hearing  brought  to  me 
a  fragment  of  a  conversation,  not  intended  for  my  edifica- 
tion, between  my  publisher  and  a  literary  woman  of  note. 
Mr.  Derby  was  telling  her,  after  the  tactless  manner  of  men, 
how  well  The  Hidden  Path  had  "done"  at  the  Trade  Sales 
just  concluded. 

"Ah!"  said  the  famous  woman,  icily.  "And  I  suppose 
she  is  naturally  greatly  elated?" 

Mr.  Derby  laughed. 

"She  hides  it  well  if  she  is.     Have  you  read  the  book?" 

270 


MY    NORTHERN     KINSPEOPLE 

"Yes.  You  were  good  enough  to  send  me  a  copy,  you 
know.     It  is  quite  a  creditable  school-girl  production." 

I  moved  clean  out  of  hearing.  I  told  Mr.  Derby,  after- 
ward, what  I  had  heard,  adding  that  my  chief  regret  was 
at  the  lowering  of  my  ideal  of  professional  generosity.  Up 
to  that  moment  I  had  met  with  indulgent  sympathy  and 
such  noble  freedom  from  envious  hypercriticism,  as  to 
foster  the  fondly-cherished  idea  that  the  expression  of  lofty 
sentiment  presupposes  the  ever-present  dwelling  of  the 
same  within  the  soul.  In  simpler  phrase,  that  the  proverb — 
"Higher  than  himself  can  no  man  think/'  had  its  converse 
in — "Lower  than  himself  can  no  man  be." 

In  this  I  erred.  I  grant  it,  in  this  one  instance.  I  had 
judged  correctly  of  the  grand  Guild  to  which  I  aspired,  with 
yearnings  unutterable,  to  belong. 

It  was  an  eventful  summer.  My  father  and  I  had  gone 
on  to  Boston  from  New  York,  setting  out,  the  same  week, 
for  a  tour  through  the  White  Mountains.  I  was  the  only 
woman  in  the  party.  Our  friend,  Ned  Rhodes,  a  distant 
cousin,  Henry  Field,  of  Boston,  and  my  father  completed 
the  quartette.  Ten  days  afterward,  we  two — my  father  and 
I — met  a  larger  travelling  party  in  New  York.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  William  Terhune,  Mrs.  Greenleaf,  the  widow  of  Doc- 
tor Hoge's  friend;  "Staff"  Little,  the  brother  of  Mrs. 
William  Terhune,  and  Edward  Terhune,  now  the  pastor 
of  a  church  at  Charlotte  C.  H.,  Virginia,  composed  the 
company  which  joined  itself  to  us,  and  set  forth  merrily 
for  Niagara  and  the  Lakes. 

The  trip  accomplished,  I  settled  down  comfortably  and 
happily  in  Boston  and  the  charming  environs  thereof  for 
the  rest  of  the  season. 

Another  halcyon  summer! 

If  I  have  made  scant  mention  of  my  father's  kindred  in 
the  land  of  his  birth,  it  is  because  this  is  a  story  of  the 
Old  South  and  of  a  life  that  has  ceased  to  be,  except  in  the 

271 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

hearts  of  the  very  few  who  may  take  up  the  boast  of  the 
Grecian  historian — "Of  which  I  was  a  part." 

I  should  be  an  ingrate  of  a  despicable  type  were  I  to  pass 
by  as  matters  of  no  moment,  the  influences  brought  to 
bear  upon  my  life  at  that  date,  and  through  succeeding 
years,  by  nty  association  with  the  several  households  who 
made  up  the  family  connection  in  that  vicinity. 

My  grandmother's  brother,  Uncle  Lewis  Pierce,  owned 
and  occupied  the  ancient  homestead  in  Dorchester.  He 
was  "a  character"  in  his  way.  Handsome  in  his  youth, 
he  was  still  a  man  of  imposing  presence,  especially  when, 
attired  in  black  broadcloth,  and  clean  shaven,  he  sat  on 
Sunday  in  the  pew  owned  by  the  Pierces  for  eight  genera- 
tions in  the  old  church  on  "Meeting  House  Hill."  He  did 
not  always  approve  of  the  doctrine  and  politics  of  the 
officiating  clergyman.  He  opened  his  mind  to  me  to  this 
effect  one  Sunday  that  summer,  as  we  jogged  along  in  his 
low-hung  phaeton,  drawn  by  a  horse  as  portly  and  as  well- 
set-up  as  his  master. 

"The  man  that  is  to  hold  forth  to-day  is  what  my  wife 
scolds  me  for  calling  'one  of  those  higher  law  devils,'"  he 
began  by  saying.  "He  is  of  the  opinion  that  the  law,  for- 
bidding slavery  and  denying  rights  to  the  masters  of  the 
slaves  and  all  that,  ought  to  set  aside  the  Constitution 
and  the  laws  made  by  better  men  and  wiser  heads  than 
his.  He'd  override  them  all,  if  he  could.  I've  nothing  to 
say  against  a  man's  having  his  own  notions  on  that,  or 
any  other  subject,  but  if  he's  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  he 
ought  to  preach  the  truth  he  finds  in  the  Bible,  and  keep 
his  confounded  politics  out  of  the  pulpit." 

He  leaned  forward  to  flick  a  fly  from  the  sleek  horse 
with  his  whip. 

"I've  been  given  to  understand  that  he  doesn't  like  to 
see  me  and  some  others  of  the  same  stripe  in  church  when 
he  preaches  for  us.     I  pay  no  attention  to  that.     If  he, 

272 


MY    NORTHERN    KINSPEOPLE 

or  any  others  of  his  damnable  way  of  thinking,  imagine 
that  I'm  to  be  kept  out  of  the  church  in  which  the  Pierces 
owned  a  pew  before  this  man  and  his  crew  were  ever 
thought  of,  he'll  find  himself  mistaken.  That's  all  there 
is  about  it!" 

It  was  worth  seeing,  after  hearing  this,  the  sturdy 
old  representative  of  the  Puritans,  sitting  bolt  upright  in 
the  quaint  box-pew  where  his  forbears  had  worshipped  the 
God  of  battles  over  a  century  before,  and  keeping  what  he 
called  his  "weather  eye"  upon  the  suspected  expounder  of 
the  gospel  of  peace.  The  obnoxious  occupant  of  the  an- 
cient and  honorable  pulpit  was,  to  my  notion,  an  amiable 
and  inoffensive  individual.  He  preached  well,  and  with 
never  an  allusion  to  "higher  law."  Yet  Uncle  Lewis  kept 
watch  and  ward  throughout  the  service.  I  could  easily 
believe  that  he  would  have  arisen  to  his  feet  and  challenged 
audibly  any  approach  to  the  forbidden  territory. 

The  day  and  scene  were  recalled  forcibly  to  my  memory 
by  a  visit  paid  to  my  Newark  home  in  1864  by  Francis 
Pierce,  the  protestant's  oldest  son,  on  his  way  home  from 
Washington.  He  was  one  of  a  committee  of  Dorchester 
citizens  sent  to  the  Capital  to  look  after  the  welfare  of 
Massachusetts  troops  called  into  the  field  by  a  Republican 
President. 

The  wife  of  the  head  of  the  Pierce  homestead  was  one  of 
the  loveliest  women  ever  brought  into  a  world  where  saints 
are  out  of  place.  Near  her  lived  an  old  widow,  who  was 
a  proverb  for  captiousness  and  wrongheadedness.  I  never 
heard  her  say  a  kind  or  charitable  word  of  neighbor  or 
friend,  until  she  astounded  me  one  day  by  breaking  out  into 
a  eulogy  upon  Aunt  Pierce  and  Cousin  Melissa,  Francis's  wife : 

"We  read  in  the  Scriptures  that  God  is  love.  I  allers 
think  of  them  two  women  when  I  hear  that  text.  It 
might  be  said  of  both  of  'em:  they  are  jest  love — through 
an'  through!" 

273 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  carried  the  story  to  the  blessed  pair,  you  may  be  sure. 
Whereupon,  my  aunt  smiled  compassionately. 

"Poor  old  lady!  People  who  don't  know  how  much 
trouble  she  has  had,  are  hard  upon  her.  We  can't  judge 
one  another  unless  we  know  all  sides  of  a  question.  She 
is  greatly  to  be  pitied." 

And  Cousin  Melissa,  in  the  gentle  tone  she  might  have 
learned  from  her  beloved  mother-in-law — "I  always  think 
that  nobody  is  cross  unless  she  is  unhappy." 

Aurora  Leigh  had  not  been  written  then.  If  it  had 
been,  neither  of  the  white-souled  dears  would  have  read 
a  word  of  it.  Yet  Mrs.  Browning  put  this  into  the  mouth 
of  her  heroine : 

"The  dear  Christ  comfort  you! 
You  must  have  been  most  miserable 
To  be  so  cruel!" 

The  old  house  was  a  never-ending  delight  to  me.  It  was 
built  in  1640  (see  Chapter  I),  ten  years  after  the  good  ship 
Mary  and  John  brought  over  from  Plymouth  the  Massa- 
chusetts Bay  Colony,  landing  her  passengers  in  Boston. 
Robert  Pierce  (or  Percie)  was,  although  a  blood  connection 
of  the  Northumberland  Percies,  the  younger  son  of  a 
younger  son,  and  so  far  "out  of  the  running"  for  title  or 
fortune  on  that  account,  that  he  sought  a  home  and  liveli- 
hood in  the  New  World. 

My  ancestress,  Ann  Greenaway,  whose  tedious  voyage 
from  England  to  Massachusetts  was  beguiled  by  her  court- 
ship and  marriage  to  stalwart  "Robert  of  Dorchester," 
bore  him  many  robust  sons  and  "capable,"  if  not  fair 
daughters,  dying  at  last  in  the  Dorchester  homestead  at 
the  ripe  age  of  one  hundred  and  four. 

From  her  the  long  line  of  descendants  may  have  in- 
herited the  stout  constitutions  and  stouter  hearts  that  gave 

274 


MY     NORTHERN     KINSPEOPLE 

and  kept  for  them  a  place  in  every  community  in  which 
they  have  taken  root. 

The  story  of  the  Pierce  Homestead  is  told  in  Some  Colo- 
nial Homesteads  more  at  length  than  I  can  give  it  here. 

The  Virginia  cousin  was  cordially  welcomed  to  the  cradle 
of  her  foremothers,  and  a  warm  attachment  grew  up  be- 
tween me  and  each  member  of  the  two  households.  My 
cousin  Francis  had  built  a  modern  house  upon  a  corner 
of  the  homestead  grounds,  and  I  was  as  happily  at  home 
there  as  in  the  original  nest. 

Another  adopted  home — and  in  which  I  spent  more 
time  than  in  all  the  rest  put  together — was  that  of  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Long,  "the  prettiest  of  the  three  Lizzies"  re- 
ferred to  in  one  of  my  letters.  Her  mother,  my  father's 
favorite  relative,  had  died  since  my  last  visit  to  Boston. 
Her  daughter  was  married  at  her  death-bed.  She  was  a 
beautiful  and  intelligent  woman,  wedded  to  a  man  of  con- 
genial tastes  who  adored  her.  The  intimacy  of  this  one 
of  our  Yankee  cousins  and  ourselves  began  before  Mea 
and  I  had  ever  seen  her.  My  sister  and  "Lizzie"  were 
diligent  correspondents  from  their  school-days.  To  a 
chance  remark  of  mine  relative  to  their  letters,  I  owe  one 
of  the  most  stable  friendships  that  has  blessed  my  life. 

We  sisters  were  in  the  school-room  at  recess  one  day 
when  I  was  fourteen,  Mea  sixteen.  I  was  preparing  a 
French  exercise  for  M.  Guillet,  Mea  writing  to  Boston.  We 
had  the  room  to  ourselves  for  the  time.  My  sister  looked 
up  from  her  paper  to  say : 

"What  shall  I  say  to  Lizzie  for  you?" 

"Give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  to  provide  me  with  a 
correspondent  as  charming  as  herself." 

In  her  reply  Lizzie  begged  leave  to  introduce  a  particular 
friend  of  her  own,  "intelligent  and  lovable — altogether  in- 
teresting, in  fact."  This  friend  had  heard  her  talk  of  her 
Southern  cousins  and  wished  to  know  them;   but  I  must 

19  275 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

write  the  first  letter.  I  caught  at  the  suggestion  of  what 
commended  itself  to  me  as  adventure,  and  it  was  an 
epistolary  age.  Letters  long  and  numerous,  filled  with 
details  and  disquisitions,  held  the  place  usurped  by  tele- 
phone, telegraph,  and  post-cards.  We  had  time  to  write, 
and  considered  that  we  could  not  put  it  to  a  better  pur- 
pose. So  the  next  letter  from  my  sister  to  my  cousin  con- 
tained a  four-pager  from  me,  addressed  to  "Quelqu'une." 
I  gave  fancy  free  play  in  conversing  with  the  unknown, 
writing  more  nonsense  than  sober  reason.  I  set  her  in  the 
chair  opposite  mine,  and  discoursed  at  her  of  "divers  say- 
ings."    If  not 

"Of  ships  and  shoes  and  sealing-wax 
And  cabbages  and  kings" — 

of  wars  and  rumors  of  wars,  and  school  duties,  and  current 
literature. 

In  due  time  I  had  a  reply  in  like  strain,  but  to  my  con- 
sternation, written  in  a  man's  hand,  and  signed  "Quel- 
qu'un. "  He  apologized  respectfully  for  the  ambiguous  terms 
of  the  introduction  that  had  led  me  into  a  mistake  as  to 
his  sex,  and  hoped  that  the  silver  that  was  beginning  to 
stipple  his  dark  hair  would  guarantee  the  propriety  of  a 
continued  correspondence. 

"Time  was,"  he  mused,  "when  I  could  conjugate  Arno 
in  all  its  moods  and  tenses.  Now  I  get  no  further  than 
Amabam,  and  am  constrained  to  confess  myself  in  the 
tense  at  which  I  halt." 

We  had  written  to  one  another  once  a  month  for  two 
years  before  the  sight  of  a  note  to  Lizzie  tore  the 
mask  from  the  face  of  my  graybeard  mentor,  and  con- 
firmed my  father's  suspicions  as  to  his  identity  with  Ossian 
Ashley,  the  husband  of  Aunt  Harriet's  elder  daughter. 
The  next  visit  I  paid  to  Boston  brought  us  together  in  the 
intimacy  of  the  family  circle.     He  never  dropped  the  role 

276 


"QUELQU'UN" 

of  elderly,  and  as  time  rolled  on,  of  brotherly  friend.  He 
was,  at  that  date,  perhaps  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  a 
superb  specimen  of  robust  manhood.  I  have  seldom  be- 
held a  handsomer  man,  and  his  port  was  kingly,  even  when 
he  had  passed  his  eightieth  birthday.  Although  a  busy 
man  of  affairs,  he  was  a  systematic  student.  His  library 
might  have  been  the  work-shop  of  a  professional  litterateur; 
he  was  a  regular  contributor  to  several  journals  upon  finan- 
cial and  literary  topics,  handling  each  with  grace  and 
strength.  His  translation  of  Victor  Cherbuliez's  Count  Kosta 
was  a  marvellous  rendering  of  the  tone  and  sense  of  the 
original  into  elegant  English.  He  was  an  excellent  French 
and  Latin  scholar,  and,  when  his  son  entered  a  German 
university,  set  himself,  at  sixty-odd,  to  study  German,  that 
he  "might  not  shame  the  boy  when  he  came  home." 

Before  that,  he  had  removed  to  New  York  City,  and  en- 
gaged in  business  there  as  a  railway  stock-broker.  He 
was,  up  to  a  few  months  prior  to  his  death,  President  of  the 
Wabash  Railway,  and  maintained  throughout  his  blame- 
less and  beneficent  life,  a  reputation  for  probity,  energy, 
and  talent. 

Peace  to  his  knightly  soul! 

He  was  passing  good  to  me  that  summer.  In  company 
with  his  wife,  we  drove,  sailed,  and  visited  steamships, 
Bunker  Hill  Monument,  and  other  places  of  historic  interest. 
In  their  society  I  made  my  first  visit  to  the  theatre,  and 
attended  concerts  and  lectures.  He  lent  me  books,  and 
led  me  on  to  discuss  them,  then,  and  when  I  was  at  home. 
And  this  when  he  was  building  up  his  business,  looking 
after  various  family  interests,  not  strictly  his  own  (he  was 
forever  lending  a  hand  to  somebody!),  and  studying  late 
into  the  night,  as  if  working  for  a  university  degree.  I 
am  told  that  such  men  are  so  rare  in  our  time  and  country 
as  to  make  this  one  of  my  heroes  a  phenomenon. 

It  is  not  marvellous  that  friendships  like  these,  enjoyed 

277 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

when  character  and  opinion  were  in  forming,  should  have 
cultivated  optimism  that  has  withstood  the  shock  and 
undermining  of  late  disappointments.  It  may  well  be  that 
I  have  not  known  another  man  who,  with  his  fortune  to 
found,  a  household  to  support,  and  a  press  of  mental  toil 
that  would  have  exhausted  the  energies  of  the  average 
student,  would  have  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  a 
child  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  and  educating  her,  and  car- 
ried it  on  out  of  affectionate  interest  in  a  provincial  kins- 
woman. 

Affection  and  genial  sympathy,  with  whatever  con- 
cerned me  or  mine,  endured  to  the  end.  He  was  my  hus- 
band's warm  friend,  a  second  father  to  my  children — al- 
ways and  everywhere,  my  ally. 

My  last  sight  of  him,  before  he  succumbed  to  lingering 
and  mortal  illness,  is  vividly  present  with  me.  We  had 
dined  with  him  and  his  wife,  and  said  to  ourselves  as  we 
had  hundreds  of  times,  that  time  had  mellowed,  without 
dimming  her  beauty,  and  made  him  magnificent.  The 
word  is  none  too  strong  to  describe  him,  as  he  towered  above 
me  in  the  parting  words  exchanged  in  light-heartedness 
unchecked  by  any  premonition  that  we  might  never  chat 
and  laugh  together  again  this  side  of  the  Silent  Sea.  He 
was  over  six  feet  in  height ;  his  hair  and  flowing  beard  were 
silver- white ;  his  fine  eyes  darker  and  brighter  by  con- 
trast; his  smile  was  as  gentle  and  his  repartee  as  ready  as 
when  he  had  jested  with  me  in  those  bygone  summers 
from  which  the  glory  has  never  faded  for  me. 

My  upturned  face  must  have  expressed  something  of 
what  filled  heart  and  thoughts,  for  he  drew  me  up  to  him 
suddenly,  and  kissed  me  between  the  eyes.  Then,  with  the 
laugh  I  knew  so  well,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  my  hus- 
band: 

"You  mustn't  be  jealous,  my  dear  fellow!  I  knew  her 
a  long  time  before  you  ever  saw  her.    And  such  good  friends 

278 


"QUELQU'UN" 

as  we  have  been  for — bless  my  soul! — can  it  be  more  than 
fifty  years?" 

Again  I  say:  "God  rest  his  knightly  soul!"  It  is  worth 
living  to  have  known  one  such  man,  and  to  have  had  him 
for  my  "good  friend"  for  "more  than  fifty  years." 


XXVIII 


" 


MY  FIRST  OPERA —    PETER  PARLEY    RACHEL  AS      CAMILLE 

BAYARD  TAYLOR — T.  B.  ALDRICH — G.  P.  MORRIS — MARIA 

CUMMINS — MRS.    A.    D„    T.    WHITNEY 

The  three  weeks  passed  in  New  York  on  my  way  home 
were  thronged  with  novel  and  enchanting  "sensations." 
I  saw  my  first  opera — Masaniello,  and  it  was  the  debut  of 
Elise  Henssler.  The  party  of  which  I  was  a  member  in- 
cluded Caroline  Cheeseboro,  Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,  and 
Samuel  Griswold  Goodrich — "Peter  Parley."  To  my 
intense  satisfaction,  my  seat  was  beside  the  kindly  old 
gentleman. 

Was  not  Parley's  Magazine  the  first  periodical  I  had  ever 
read?  And  had  not  I  devoured  every  book  he  had  written, 
down  to  a  set  of  popular  biographies  for  which  my  father 
had  subscribed  as  a  gift  to  me  on  my  eighteenth  birthday? 
That  I  should,  really  and  truly,  be  sitting  at  his  side  and 
hearing  him  speak,  was  a  treat  I  could  hardly  wait  until 
to-morrow  to  dilate  upon  in  my  home-diary  letter.  He 
was  social  and  amusing,  and,  withal,  intelligently  appre- 
ciative of  the  music  and  actors.  He  rattled  away  jovially 
in  the  entr'actes  of  other  operas  and  personal  traits  of  stage 
celebrities,  theatrical,  and  operatic.  He  told  me,  too,  of 
how  he  had  been  ridiculed  for  embarking  upon  a  career 
his  friends  thought  puerile  and  contemptible,  when  he  is- 
sued the  initial  number  of  Parley's  Magazine.  If  I  was 
secretly  disappointed  that-  his  affection  for  his  juvenile 
constituency  was  more  perfunctory  than  I  had  supposed 

280 


MY    FIRST    OPERA 

from  his  writings,  I  smothered  the  feeling  as  disloyal,  and 
would  be  nothing  short  of  charmed. 

I  wrote  to  my  mother  next  day  that  he  was  "a  nice, 
friendly  old  gentleman,  but  impressed  me  as  one  who  had 
outlived  his  enthusiasms."  If  I  had  put  the  truth  into 
downright  English,  I  should  have  said  that  the  circum- 
stance that  he  was  enshrined  in  thousands  of  young  hearts 
as  the  aged  man  with  a  sore  foot  propped  upon  a  cushion, 
and  whose  big  heart  was  a  fountain  of  love,  and  his  brain 
a  store-house  of  tales  garnered  for  their  delectation — was 
of  minor  importance  to  the  profit  popularity  had  brought 
him.  I  was  yet  new  to  the  world's  ways  and  estimate  of 
values. 

The  next  night  I  saw  Rachel  in  Les  Horaces.  I  had 
never  seen  really  great  acting  before.  I  had,  however, 
read  Charlotte  Bronte's  incomparable  portraiture,  in  Vil- 
lette,  of  the  queen  of  the  modern  stage.  Having  no  lan- 
guage of  my  own  that  could  depict  what  was  done  before 
my  eyes,  and  uttered  to  my  rapt  soul,  I  drew  upon  obedi- 
ent memory.  Until  that  moment  I  had  not  known  how 
faithful  memory  could  be.  In  the  breathless  excitement 
of  the  last  act  of  the  tragedy,  every  word  was  laid  ready 
to  my  hand.  I  seemed  to  read,  with  my  subconscious  per- 
ceptions, lines  of  palpitating  light,  the  while  my  bodily 
sight  lost  not  a  gesture  or  look  of  the  stricken  tigress: 

"An  inordinate  will,  convulsing  a  perishing  mortal  frame, 
bent  it  to  battle  with  doom  and  death;  fought  every  inch 
of  ground,  sold  every  drop  of  blood ;  resisted  to  the  last  the 
rape  of  every  faculty;  would  see,  ivould  hear,  would  breathe, 
would  live,  up  to,  within,  well-nigh  beyond  the  moment 
when  Death  says  to  all  sense  and  all  being — 'Thus  far  and 
no  farther!'  " 

I  saw  others — some  said  as  great  actors— in  after  years. 
Among  them,  Ristori.  I  do  not  think  it  was  because  I 
had  seen  none  of  them  before  the   Vashti  of  Charlotte 

281 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Bronte's  impassioned  periods  flashed  upon  my  unaccus- 
tomed sight,  that  I  still  hold  her  impersonation  of  Camille 
in  Les  Horaces  to  be  the  grandest  triumph  of  the  tragedian's 
art  mine  eyes  have  ever  witnessed.  Ristori  was  always  the 
gentlewoman,  born  and  reared,  in  whatever  role  she  as- 
sumed. Rachel — and  again  I  betake  myself  to  the  weird 
word-painting : 

"Evil  forces  bore  her  through  the  tragedy;  kept  up  her 
feeble  strength.  .  .  .  They  wrote  'Hell'  on  her  straight, 
haughty  brow.  They  tuned  her  voice  to  the  note  of 
torment.  They  writhed  her  regal  face  to  a  demoniac  mask. 
Hate  and  Murder  and  Madness  incarnate,  she  stood." 

I  fancy  that  I  must  have  been  whispering  the  words  as 
I  gathered  up  my  wraps  and  followed  my  companions  out 
of  the  box.  I  recollect  that  one  or  two  persons  stared 
curiously  at  me.  In  the  foyer  I  was  introduced  to  some 
strangers,  and  went  through  certain  civil  forms  of  speech. 
I  did  not  recollect  names  or  faces  when  we  got  back  to  the 
hotel.  After  I  was  in  bed,  I  could  not  sleep  for  hours. 
But  one  other  actor  has  ever  wrought  so  mightily  upon 
nerves  and  imagination.  When  I  was  forty  years  older 
I  was  ill  for  forty-eight  hours  after  seeing  Salvini  as  Othello. 

During  this  memorable  stay  in  New  York  I  met  Bayard 
Taylor.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  first  call,  I  rushed  to  my 
desk  and  wrote  to  my  sister: 

"He  has  a  port  like  Jove. 

'"Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world:  '"This  is  a  man!'"" 

For  once  my  ideal  did  not  transcend  the  reality.  Would 
that  I  could  say  it  of  all  my  dream-heroes  and  heroines! 
At  his  second  call,  Mr.  Taylor  was  accompanied  by  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard.  At  his  first,  he  brought  Charles  Frederick 
Briggs,   journalist  and  author,   whose   best-known   book, 

282 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  — T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Harry  Franco,  I  had  read  and  liked.  I  met  him  but  once. 
Mr.  Taylor  honored  me  with  his  friendship  until  his  la- 
mented death.     My  recollections  of  him  are  all  pleasant. 

We  met  seldom,  but  our  relations  were  cordial;  the  re- 
newal of  personal  association  was  ever  that  of  friends  who 
liked  and  understood  each  other.  I  reckoned  it  a  favor 
that  honored  me,  that  his  widow  accepted  me  as  her  hus- 
band's old  acquaintance,  and  that  his  memory  has  drawn 
us  together  in  bonds  of  affectionate  regard. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  was  then  (in  1855)  a  mere 
stripling,  yet  already  famous  as  the  author  of  Babie  Bell 
and  Elsinore,  poems  that  would  have  immortalized  him 
had  he  not  written  another  line.  I  came  to  know  him  well 
during  my  Northern  sojourn.  His  charming  personality 
won  hearts  as  inevitably  as  his  genius  commanded  admira- 
tion. Halleck's  hackneyed  eulogy  of  his  early  friend  might 
be  applied,  and  without  dissent,  to  the  best-beloved  of  our 
later  poets.  To  know  him  was  to  love  him.  The  mag- 
netism of  the  rarely-sweet  smile,  the  frank  sincerity  of  his 
greeting,  the  direct  appeal  of  the  clear  eyes  to  the  brother- 
heart  which,  he  took  for  granted,  beat  responsive  to  his, 
were  irresistible,  even  to  the  casual  acquaintance.  His 
letters  were  simply  bewitching — as  when  I  wrote  to  him 
after  each  of  us  had  grown  children,  asking  if  he  would  give 
my  youngest  daughter  the  autograph  she  coveted  from 
his  hand. 

He  began  by  begging  me  to  ask  him,  the  next  time  I 
wrote,  for  something  that  he  could  do,  not  for  what  was 
impossible  for  him  to  grant.  He  had  laid  it  down  as  a 
rule,  not  to  be  broken  under  any  temptation,  whatsoever, 
that  he  would  never  give  his  autograph. 

"If  I  could  make  an  exception  in  the  present  case,  you 
know  how  gladly  I  would  do  it,  only  to  prove  that  I  am  un- 
alterably your  friend, 

"Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.'" 

283 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

He  graced  whatever  he  touched,  and  made  the  common- 
place poetic.  The  ineffable  tenderness  and  purity  of  his 
verse  were  the  atmosphere  in  which  the  man  lived  and 
moved  and  breathed.  The  mystic  afflatus  of  the  born 
poet  clothed  him,  as  with  a  garment. 

George  P.  Morris  I  met  again  and  again.  With  the 
frank  conceit,  so  permeated  with  the  amiability  and  naivete 
of  the  veteran  songster,  that  it  offended  nobody,  he  told 
me  how  Braham  had  sung  Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree,  be- 
fore Queen  Victoria,  at  her  special  request,  and  that  Jenny 
Marsh  of  Cherry  Valley  was  more  of  an  accepted  classic 
than  Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch.  He  narrated,  too,  the 
thrilling  effect  produced  upon  an  audience  in  New  York 
or  Philadelphia  by  the  singing  for  the  first  time  in  public 
of  Near  the  Rock  Where  Drooped  the  Willow,  and  smiled 
benignantly  on  hearing  that  it  was  a  favorite  ballad  in  our 
home.  He  was  then  associated  with  N.  P.  Willis  in  the 
editorship  of  The  New  York  Mirror,  and  agreed  fully  with 
me  that  it  had  not  its  peer  among  American  literary 
periodicals. 

My  mother  had  taken  it  for  years.  We  had  a  shelf  full 
of  the  bound  volumes  at  home.  I  have  some  of  them  in 
my  own  library,  and  twice  or  three  times  in  the  year,  have 
a  rainy  afternoon-revel  over  the  yellowed,  brittle  pages 
mottled  with  the  mysterious,  umber  thumbmarks  of  Time. 

Colonel  Morris's  partner,  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  who 
had  not  yet  taken  to  writing  out  the  name  at  full  length, 
was  at  his  country-seat  of  "Idlewild."  He  was  ten  years 
older  when  I  saw  him  last,  and  under  circumstances 
that  took  the  sting  from  regret  that  I  had  not  met  him 
when  life  was  fresh  and  faiths  were  easily  confirmed. 

While  in  Dorchester  I  had  enjoyed  improving  my  ac- 
quaintanceship with  Maria  Cummins.  Encyclopaedias  reg- 
ister her  briefly  as  "An  American  novelist.  She  wrote 
The  Lamplighter."     In  1855,  no  other  woman  writer  was 

284 


MARIA    CUMMINS 

so  prominently  before  the  reading  public.  The  Lamp- 
lighter was  in  every  home,  and  gossip  of  the  personality  of 
the  author  was  seized  upon  greedily  by  press  and  readers. 
Meeting  Augusta  Evans,  of  Rutledge  and  St.  Elmo  and 
Beulah,  four  years  thereafter,  I  was  forcibly  reminded  of 
my  Dorchester  friend,  albeit  they  belonged  to  totally 
different  schools  of  literature.  Both  were  quietly  refined 
in  manner  and  speech,  and  incredibly  unspoiled  by  the  flood 
of  popular  favor  that  had  taken  each  by  surprise.  Alike, 
too,  was  the  warmth  of  cordiality  with  which  both  greeted 
me,  a  stranger,  whom  they  might  never  meet  again. 

An  amusing  incident  connected  with  one  of  Maria  Cum- 
mins's  visits  broke  down  any  lingering  trace  of  stranger- 
hood.  She  was  to  take  tea  at  the  house  of  my  cousin, 
Francis  Pierce.  I  was  sitting  by  the  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, awaiting  her  arrival  and  gazing  at  the  panorama 
of  Boston  Bay  and  the  intervening  hills,  when  an  old  lady, 
a  relative-in-law  of  "Cousin  Melissa,"  stole  in.  She  was 
over  eighty,  and  so  pathetically  alone  in  the  lower  world 
that  Melissa — the  personation  of  Charity,  which  is  Love — 
had  granted  her  home  and  care  for  several  years.  She  had 
donned  her  best  cap  and  gown;  as  she  crept  up  to  me,  she 
glanced  nervously  from  side  to  side,  and  her  withered 
hands  chafed  one  another  in  agitation  she  could  not  con- 
ceal. 

"I  say,  dearie,"  she  began,  in  a  whisper,  bending  down 
to  my  face,  "would  you  mind  if  I  was  to  sit  in  the  corner 
over  there" — nodding  toward  the  back  parlor — "and  listen 
to  your  talk  after  Miss  Cummins  comes?  I  won't  make 
the  least  mite  of  noise.  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  never  had 
a  chance  to  hear  two  actresses  talk  before,  and  I  may  never 
have  another." 

I  consented,  laughingly,  and  she  took  up  her  position 
just  in  time  to  escape  being  seen  by  the  incoming  guest. 
We  chatted  away  cheerily  at  our  far  window,  watching  the 

285 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

sunset  as  it  crimsoned  the  bay  and  faded  languidly  into 
warm  gray. 

"Summer  sunsets  are  associated  in  my  mind,  in  a  dreamy 
way,  with  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells/'  observed  my  com- 
panion, and  went  on  to  tell  how,  as  a  child,  living  in  Salem, 
she  used  to  watch  the  long  lines  of  cows  coming  in  from 
the  meadows  at  evening,  and  how  musically  the  tinkle  of 
many  bells  blended  with  other  sunset  sounds. 

"I  have  the  same  association  with  my  Virginia  home," 
I  answered.  "So  had  Gray  with  Stoke  Pogis.  But  his 
herd  lowed  as  it  wound  slowly  over  the  lea." 

"Perhaps  English  cows  are  hungrier  than  ours/'  Miss 
Cummins  followed,  in  like  strain.  "I  prefer  the  chiming 
bells." 

We  dropped  into  more  serious  talk  after  that.  The  un- 
seen listener  carried  off,  up-stairs,  when  she  stole  out,  like 
my  little  gray  ghost,  but  one  impression  of  the  "actresses' " 
confabulation.  Cousin  Melissa  told  me  of  it  next  day. 
The  old  lady  was  grievously  disappointed.  We  had  talked 
of  nothing  but  cows  and  cow-bells,  and  cows  coming  home 
hungry  for  supper,  and  such  stuff.  "  For  all  the  world  as  if 
they  had  lived  on  a  dairy-farm  all  their  days!" 

I  supped  with  Miss  Cummins  and  her  widowed  mother 
a  day  or  so  later,  and  we  made  merry  together  over  the 
poor  crone's  chagrin. 

It  was  rather  singular  that  in  our  several  meetings 
neither  of  us  spoke  of  Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney.  She  had  not 
then  written  the  books  that  brought  for  her  love  and  fame 
in  equal  portions.  But  she  was  Maria  Cummins's  dear 
friend,  and  a  near  neighbor  of  the  Pierces.  When  we,  at 
last,  formed  an  intimacy  that  ceased  only  with  her  life,  we 
wondered  why  this  should  have  been  delayed  for  a  score 
of  years,  when  we  had  so  nearly  touched,  during  that  and 
other  visits  to  my  ancestral  home. 

At  our  earliest  meeting  in  her  Milton  cottage,  whither 

286 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY 

I  had  gone  by  special  invitation,  she  hurried  down  the 
stairs  with  outstretched  hands  and — "I  cannot  meet  you 
as  a  stranger.  My  dear  friend,  Maria  Cummins,  has  often 
talked  to  me  of  you!" 

In  the  hasty  sketch  of  a  few  representative  members  of 
the  Literary  Guild  of  America,  as  it  existed  a  half-century 
ago,  I  have  made  good  what  I  intimated  a  few  chapters 
back,  in  alluding  to  my  introductory  experience  of  pro- 
fessional jealousies,  which,  if  cynics  are  to  be  credited,  per- 
vade the  ranks  of  authors,  as  the  mysterious,  fretting 
leprosy  ate  into  the  condemned  garment  of  the  ancient 
Israelite.  In  all  frankness,  and  with  a  swelling  of  heart 
that  is  both  proud  and  thankful,  I  aver  that  no  other  order, 
or  class,  of  men  and  women  is  so  informed  and  permeated 
and  colored  with  generous  and  loyal  appreciation  of  what- 
ever is  worthy  in  the  work  of  a  fellow-craftsman;  so  little 
jealous  of  his  reputation;  so  ready  to  make  his  wrongs  com- 
mon property,  and  to  assist  the  lowliest  member  of  the 
Guild  in  the  hour  of  need. 

I  make  no  exception  in  favor  of  any  profession  or  call- 
ing, in  offering  this  humble  passing  tribute  to  the  Fraternity 
of  American  Authors.  I  could  substantiate  my  assertion 
by  countless  illustrations  drawn  from  personal  observa- 
tion, had  I  space  and  time  to  devote  to  the  task.  In  my 
sixty  years  of  literary  life,  I  have  known  nearly  every 
writer  of  note  in  our  country.  In  reviewing  the  list,  I 
bow  in  spirit,  as  the  seer  of  Patmos  bent  the  knee  in  the 
presence  of  the  shining  ones. 


XXIX 

ANNA    CORA    (iVIOWATT)    RITCHIE — EDWARD    EVERETT — GOV- 
ERNOR WISE — A  MEMORABLE   DINNER-PARTY 

In  1854,  Anna  Cora  Mo  watt,  "American  actress,  novelist, 
dramatist,  and  poet,"  as  the  cyclopaedias  catalogue  her,  left 
the  stage  to  become  the  wife  of  William  Foushee  Ritchie, 
of  Richmond,  Virginia. 

Mrs.  Mowatt,  nee  Ogclen,  was  the  daughter  of  a  promi- 
nent citizen  of  New  York.  She  was  born  in  France,  and 
partially  educated  there.  Returning  to  America,  she  mar- 
ried, in  her  sixteenth  year,  James  Mowatt,  a  scholarly  and 
wealthy  man,  but  much  the  senior  of  the  child-wife.  By  a 
sudden  reverse  of  fortune  he  was  compelled  to  relinquish 
the  beautiful  country  home  on  Long  Island,  to  which  he 
had  taken  his  wife  soon  after  their  marriage.  With  the 
romantic  design  of  saving  the  home  she  loved,  Mrs.  Mowatt 
began  a  series  of  public  readings.  Her  dramatic  talent 
was  already  well  known  in  fashionable  private  circles.  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  round  of  readings  given  in  New  York 
and  vicinity,  she  received  a  proposal  from  a  theatrical 
manager  to  go  upon  the  stage.  For  nine  years  she  was  a 
prime  favorite  with  the  American  theatre-going  public, 
and  almost  as  popular  abroad.  She  never  redeemed 
"Ravenswood,"  and  her  husband  died  while  she  was  in  the 
zenith  of  her  brilliant  success. 

Her  union  with  William  Ritchie,  who  had  admired  her 
for  a  long  tune,  was  a  love-match  on  both  sides.  He 
brought  her  to  quiet  Richmond,  and  installed  her  in  a 

288 


ANNA    CORA    (MOWATT)    RITCHIE 

modest  cottage  on  our  side  of  the  town,  but  three  blocks 
from  my  father's  house,  The  Ritchies  were  one  of  the  best 
of  our  oldest  families;  Mrs.  Mo  watt  belonged  to  one  as 
excellent;  her  character  was  irreproachable.  I  recollect 
Doctor  Haxall  insisting  upon  this  when  a  very  conserva- 
tive Mrs.  Grundy  "wondered  if  we  ought  to  visit  her." 

"  You  wall  see,  madam,  that  she  will  speedily  be  as  popu- 
lar here  as  she  has  been  elsewhere.  She  is  a  lovely  woman, 
and  as  to  reputation — hers  is  irreproachable— absolutely ! 
No  tongue  has  ever  wagged  against  her." 

I  listened  with  curiosity  that  had  not  a  tinge  of  personal 
concern  in  it.  It  went  without  saying  that  an  ex-actress 
was  out  of  my  sphere.  The  church  that  condemned  dan- 
cing was  yet  more  severe  upon  the  theatre.  True,  Mrs. 
Ritchie  had  left  the  stage,  and,  it  was  soon  bruited  abroad, 
never  recited  except  in  her  own  home  and  in  the  fine  old 
colonial  homestead  of  Brandon,  where  lived  Mr.  Ritchie's 
sister,  Mrs.  George  Harrison.  But  she  had  trodden  the 
boards  for  eight  or  nine  years,  and  that  stamped  her  as  a 
personage  quite  unlike  the  rest  of  "us." 

So  when  William  Ritchie  stopped  my  father  on  the 
street  and  expressed  a  wish  that  his  wife  and  I  should 
know  each  other,  he  had  a  civil,  non-committal  reply,  em- 
bodying the  fact  that  I  was  expecting  to  go  North  soon, 
and  would  not  be  at  home  again  before  the  autumn. 

During  my  absence  my  father  sent  me  a  copy  of  the 
Enquirer  containing  a  review  of  The  Hidden  Path,  written 
by  Mrs.  Ritchie,  so  complimentary,  and  so  replete  with 
frank,  cordial  interest  in  the  author,  that  I  could  not  do 
less  than  to  call  on  my  return  and  thank  her. 

She  was  not  at  home.  I  recall,  with  a  flush  of  shame,  how 
relieved  I  was  that  a  card  should  represent  me,  and  that 
I  had  "done  the  decent  thing."  The  "decent  thing,"  in 
her  opinion,  was  that  the  call  should  be  repaid  within  the 
week. 

289 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

No  picture  of  her  that  I  have  seen  does  her  even  partial 
justice.  In  her  youth  she  was  extremely  pretty.  At 
thirty-eight,  she  was  more  than  handsome.  Time  had 
not  dimmed  her  exquisite  complexion;  her  hair  had  been 
cut  off  during  an  attack  of  brain-fever,  and  grew  out  again 
in  short,  fair  curls;  her  eyes  were  soft  blue;  her  teeth 
dazzlingly  white.  Of  her  smile  Edgar  Allan  Poe  had 
written:  "A  more  radiant  gleam  could  not  be  imagined." 
In  manner,  she  was  as  simple  as  a  child.  Not  with  studied 
simplicity,  but  out  of  genuine  self-forgetfulness. 

She  struck  what  I  was  to  learn  was  the  keynote  to  char- 
acter and  motive,  before  I  had  known  her  ten  minutes.  I 
essayed  to  thank  her  for  what  she  had  said  of  my  book. 
She  listened  in  mild  surprise: 

"  Don't  thank  me  for  an  act  of  mere  justice.  I  liked  the 
book.  I  write  book-reviews  for  my  husband's  paper.  I 
could  not  do  less  than  say  what  I  thought." 

And — at  my  suggestion  that  adverse  criticism  was  whole- 
some for  the  tyro — "Why  should  I  look  for  faults  when 
there  is  so  much  good  to  be  seen  without  searching?" 

A  woman  of  an  utterly  different  type  sounded  the  same 
note  a  score  of  years  afterward. 

I  said  to  Frances  Willard,  whose  neighbor  I  was  at  a 
luncheon  given  in  her  honor  by  the  wife  of  the  Command- 
ant at  Fort  Mackinac : 

"You  know,  Miss  Willard,  that,  as  General  Howard  said 
just  now  of  us,  you  and  I  '  don't  train  in  the  same  band.'  " 

"No?"  The  accent  and  the  sweet  candor,  the  in- 
effable womanliness  of  the  eyes  that  sought  mine,  touched 
the  spring  of  memory.  "Suppose,  then,  we  talk  only  of 
the  many  points  upon  which  we  do  agree?  Why  seek  for 
opposition  when  there  are  so  many  harmonies  close  at 
hand?" 

Of  such  peacelovers  and  peacemakers  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  by  whatsoever  name  they  are  called  on  earth. 

290 


ANNA    CORA    (MOWATT)    RITCHIE 

Mrs.  Ritchie  was  a  Swedenborgian.  I  had  learned  that 
in  her  Autobiography  of  an  Actress.  All  denominations — in- 
cluding some  whose  adherents  would  not  sit  down  to  the 
Lord's  Supper  with  certain  others,  and  those  who  would 
not  partake  of  the  consecrated  "elements"  if  administered 
by  non-prelatic  hands — united  in  shutting  and  bolting 
the  door  of  heaven  in  her  face. 

In  the  intimate  companionship,  unbroken  by  these  and 
other  admonitions,  I  never  heard  from  Mrs.  Ritchie's  lips 
a  syllable  that  was  not  redolent  with  the  law  of  kindness. 
I  learned  to  love  her  fondly  and  to  revere  her  with  fervor 
I  would  not  have  believed  possible,  six  months  earlier.  It 
was  not  her  fascination  of  manner  alone  that  attracted 
me,  or  the  unceasing  acts  of  sisterly  kindness  she  poured 
upon  me,  that  deepened  my  devotion.  She  opened  to  me 
the  doors  of  a  new  world:  broadened  and  deepened  and 
sweetened  my  whole  nature.  We  never  spoke  of  doctrines. 
We  rarely  had  a  talk — and  henceforward  our  meetings  were 
almost  daily — in  which  she  did  not  drop  into  my  mind 
some  precious  grain  of  faith  in  the  All- Father;  of  love  for 
the  good  and  noble  in  my  fellow-man  and  of  compassion, 
rather  than  blame,  for  the  erring.  Of  her  own  church  she 
did  not  talk.  She  assumed,  rather,  that  we  were  "one 
family,  above,  beneath,"  and  bound  by  the  sacred  tie  of 
kinship,  to  "do  good  and  to  communicate."  She  had  a 
helpful  hand,  as  well  as  a  comforting  word,  for  the  sorrow- 
ing and  the  needy.  As  to  her  benefactions,  I  heard  of 
them,  now  and  again,  from  others.  Now  it  was  an  aged 
gentlewoman,  worn  down  to  the  verge  of  nervous  prostra- 
tion, and  too  poor  to  seek  the  change  of  air  she  ought  to 
have,  who  was  sent  at  the  Ritchies'  expense  to  Old  Point 
Comfort  for  a  month;  or  a  struggling  music-mistress,  for 
whom  Mrs.  Ritchie  exerted  herself  quietly  to  secure  pupils; 
or  a  girl  whose  talent  for  elocution  was  developed  by  private 
lessons  from  the  ex-actress;    or  a  bedridden  matron,  who 

20  291 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  quieter  nights  after  Mrs.  Ritchie  ran  in,  two  or  three 
evenings  in  a  week,  to  read  to  her  for  half  an  hour  in  the 
rich,  thrilling  voice  that  had  held  hundreds  enchanted  in 
bygone  days. 

To  me  she  was  a  revelation  of  good-will  to  men.  She 
lectured  me  sometimes,  as  a  mother  might  and  ought,  al- 
ways in  infinite  tenderness. 

"I  cannot  have  you  say  that,  my  child!"  she  said  once, 
when  I  broke  into  a  tirade  against  the  hypocrisy  and  gen- 
eral selfishness  of  humankind  at  large,  and  certain  offend- 
ers in  particular.  "Nobody  is  all- wicked.  There  is  more 
unconquered  evil  in  some  natures  than  in  others.  There 
is  good — a  spark  of  divine  fire — in  every  soul  God  has 
made.  Look  for  it,  and  you  will  find  it.  Encourage  it, 
and  it  will  shine." 

And  in  reply  to  a  murmur  during  the  trial-experiences  of 
parish  work,  when  I  "deplored  the  effect  of  these  belittling 
cares  and  petty  commonplaces  upon  my  intellectual 
growth,"  the  caressing  hand  was  laid  against  my  hot  cheek. 

"Dear!  you  are  the  wife  of  the  man  of  God!  It  is  a 
sacred  trust  committed  to  you  as  his  helpmate.  To  shirk 
anything  that  helps  him  would  be  a  sin.  And  we  climb 
one  step  at  a  time,  you  know — not  by  bold  leaps.  Nothing 
is  belittling  that  God  sets  for  us  to  do." 

She,  and  some  other  things,  gave  me  a  royal  winter. 

Another  good  friend,  Mrs.  Stanard,  had  notified  me  that 
Edward  Everett,  then  lecturing  in  behalf  of  the  Mount 
Vernon  Association,  was  to  be  her  guest  while  in  Rich- 
mond, and  raised  me  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  delighted 
anticipation  by  inviting  me  to  meet  him  at  a  dinner-party 
she  would  give  him.  Mrs.  Ritchie  forestalled  the  intro- 
duction to  the  great  man  by  writing  a  wee  note  to  me  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the  dinner  was  to  be. 

The  Mount  Vernon  Association  had  for  its  express  ob- 
ject the  purchase  of  Washington's  home  and  burial-place, 

292 


EDWARD    EVERETT 

to  be  held  by  the  Nation,  and  not  by  the  remote  descendant 
of  Mary  and  Augustine  Washington,  who  had  inherited  it. 
Mrs.  Ritchie  was  the  secretary  of  the  organization. 
Her  note  said: 

"  A  committee  of  our  Association  will  wait  upon  Mr.  Everett 
at  the  Governor's  house  this  forenoon.  I  will  smuggle  you  in, 
if  you  will  go  with  us.     I  shall  call  for  you  at  eleven." 

When  we  four  who  had  come  together  were  ushered  into 
the  spacious  drawing-room  of  the  gubernatorial  mansion, 
we  had  it  to  ourselves.  Mrs.  Ritchie,  with  a  pretty  gesture 
that  reminded  one  of  her  French  birth,  fell  to  arranging 
five  or  six  chairs  near  the  middle  of  the  room,  into  a  seem- 
ingly careless  group.  One  faced  the  rest  at  a  conversational 
angle. 

"Now!"  she  uttered,  with  a  playful  pretence  of  secrecy; 
"you  will  see  Mr.  Everett  seat  himself  just  there!  He  can 
do  nothing  else.  Call  it  a  stage  trick,  if  you  like.  But  he 
must  sit  there!" 

The  words  had  hardly  left  her  lips  when  Mr.  Everett 
entered,  accompanied  by  a  younger  man,  erect  in  carriage 
and  bronzed  in  complexion,  whom  he  presented  to  us  as 
"My  son-in-law,  Lieutenant  Wise." 

To  our  secret  amusement,  Mr.  Everett  took  the  chair  set 
for  him,  and  this,  when  three  remained  vacant  after  the 
ladies  were  all  seated. 

Lieutenant  Wise  and  I,  as  the  non-attached  personages 
present,  drifted  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  while  official 
talk  went  on  between  the  orator-statesman  and  the  com- 
mittee. 

The  retentive  memory,  which  has,  from  my  babyhood, 
been  both  bane  and  blessing,  speedily  identified  my  com- 
panion with  the  author  of  Los  Gringos  (The  Yankees),  a 
satirical  and  very  clever  work  that  had  fallen  in  my  way 

293 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

a  couple  of  years  before.     He  was  a  cousin  of  the  Governor. 
I  learned  to-day  of  his  connection  with  the  Everetts. 

He  was  social,  and  a  witty  talker.  I  had  time  to  discover 
this  before  the  Governor  appeared  with  his  daughter,  a 
charming  girl  of  seventeen,  who  did  the  honors  of  the  house 
with  unaffected  grace  and  ease. 

I  had  met  her  before,  and  I  knew  her  father  quite  well. 
Mrs.  Ritchie  had  taken  herself  severely  to  task  that  very 
week  for  speaking  of  him  as  "our  warm-hearted,  hot- 
headed Governor." 

The  characterization  was  just.  We  all  knew  him  to  be 
both,  and  loved  him  none  the  less  for  the  warm  temper 
that  had  hurried  him  into  many  a  scrape,  political  and 
personal.  We  were  rather  proud  of  his  belligerency,  and 
took  real  pride  in  wondering  what  "he  would  do  next." 
He  was  eloquent  in  debate,  a  bitter  partisan,  a  warrior 
who  would  fight  to  the  death  for  friend,  country  or  prin- 
ciple. Virginia  never  had  a  Governor  whom  she  loved 
more,  and  of  whom  she  was  more  justly  proud. 

This  was  early  in  the  year  1856.  I  do  not  recollect  that 
I  ever  visited  the  state  drawing-room  of  the  mansion  again, 
until  I  stood  upon  a  dais  erected  on  the  very  spot  where 
Lieutenant  Wise  and  I  had  chatted  together  that  brilliant 
winter  day,  and  I  lectured  to  crowded  parlors  in  behalf 
of  the  Mary  Washington  Monument  Association.  Another 
Governor  reigned  in  the  stead  of  our  warm-hearted  and 
hot-headed  soldier.  Another  generation  of  women  than 
that  which  had  saved  the  son's  tomb  to  the  Nation  was 
now  working  to  erect  a  monument  over  the  neglected  grave 
of  the  mother. 

When  the  throng  had  dispersed,  "Annie"  Wise,  now 
Mrs.  Hobson — and  still  of  a  most  winsome  presence — and 
I  withdrew  into  a  corner  to  speak  of  that  five-and-forty- 
y ear-old  episode,  and  said:  "The  fathers,  where  are  they? 
And  the  prophets — they  do  live  forever!" 

294 


A    MEMORABLE    DINNER-PARTY 

Of  the  group  collected  about  Mr.  Everett,  on  the  noon 
preceding  the  delivery  of  his  celebrated  oration,  but  we 
two  were  left  alive  upon  the  earth. 

Of  the  Stanard  dinner  I  retain  a  lively  recollection. 
Among  the  guests  were  Lieutenant  Wise;  Mr.  Corcoran, 
the  Washington  banker  and  philanthropist;  his  slim,  en- 
gaging young  daughter  (afterward  Mrs.  Eustis),  and  Mr. 
Everett's  son,  Sidney.  Mrs.  Stanard  was  the  most  judi- 
cious and  gracious  of  hostesses.  "A  fashionable  leader  of 
fashionable  society!"  sneered  somebody  in  my  hearing, 
one  day. 

Mrs.  Ritchie  took  up  the  word  promptly.  Detraction 
never  passed  unchallenged  in  her  presence. 

"Fashionable,  if  you  will.  But  sincere.  She  is  a  true- 
hearted  woman." 

In  subscribing  heartily  to  the  truth  of  the  statement,  I 
append  what  I  had  abundant  reason  to  know  and  believe. 
She  was  a  firm  friend  to  those  she  loved,  steadfast  in  affec- 
tion that  outlasted  youth  and  prosperity. 

She  made  life  smooth  for  everybody  within  her  reach 
whenever  she  could  do  it.  She  had  the  inestimable  talent 
of  divining  what  would  best  please  each  of  her  guests,  and 
ministered  to  weakness  and  desire. 

On  this  night,  she  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  a  personal 
talk  with  the  chief  guest  would  be  an  event  to  me.  She 
lured  me  adroitly  into  a  nook  adjoining  the  drawing-room, 
and  as  Mr.  Everett,  who  was  staying  in  the  house,  passed 
the  door,  she  called  him  in,  and  presently  left  me  on  his 
hands  for  half  an  hour.  He  was  always  my  beau  ideal  of 
the  perfect  gentleman.  He  talked  quietly,  in  refined  modu- 
lations and  chaste  English  that  betokened  the  scholar. 
Like  all  really  great  men,  he  bore  himself  with  modest  dig- 
nity, with  never  a  touch  of  bluster  or  self-consciousness. 
In  five  minutes  I  found  myself  listening  and  replying,  as 
to  an  old  acquaintance.     His  voice  was  low,  and  so  musical 

295 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

as  to  fasten  upon  him  the  sobriquet  of  the  "silver-tongued 
orator."  I  could  repeat,  almost  verbatim,  his  part  of  our 
talk  on  that  occasion.  I  give  the  substance  of  one  section 
that  impressed  me  particularly. 

We  spoke  of  Hiawatha,  then  a  recent  publication.  Mr. 
Everett  thought  that  Longfellow  transgressed  artistic  rules, 
and  was  disobedient  to  literary  precedent  in  translating 
Indian  names  in  the  text  of  the  poem.  The  repetition  of 
"Minnehaha— Laughing  Water,"  "The  West  Wind— Mud- 
jekeewis,"  "Ishkooda — the  Comet,"  etcetera,  was  affected 
and  tedious. 

"Moreover,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "I  have  serious 
doubts  respecting  the  florid  metaphors  and  highly  figura- 
tive speech  which  Cooper  and  other  writers  of  North  Ameri- 
can Indian  stories  have  put  into  the  mouths  of  their  dusky 
heroes."  He  went  on  to  say  that,  when  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  he  received  a  deputation  of  aborigines  from 
the  Far  West.  In  anticipation  of  the  visit,  he  primed  him- 
self with  an  ornate  address  of  welcome,  couched  in  the 
figurative  language  he  imagined  would  be  familiar  and 
agreeable  to  the  chiefs.  This  was  delivered  through  an 
interpreter,  and  received  in  blank  silence.  Then  the  prin- 
cipal sachem  replied  in  curt  platitudes,  with  never  a  trope 
or  allegorical  allusion.  Mr.  Everett  added  that  he  had 
learned  since  that  the  vocabulary  of  the  modern  Indian 
is  meagre  and  prosaic  in  the  extreme. 

The  justice  of  the  observation  was  borne  in  upon  me 
when  I  sat  in  James  Redpath's  box  at  the  Indian  Exhibi- 
tion I  have  spoken  of  in  another  chapter,  and  heard 
snatches  of  alleged  oratory  as  transmitted  by  a  fluent 
interpreter  to  the  Newark  audience.  Anything  more  tame 
and  bare  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine. 


XXX 

A  MUSICAL  CONVENTION — GEORGE  FRANCIS  ROOT — WHEN 
"THE  SHINING  SHORE"  WAS  FIRST  SUNG — THE  HALLELU- 
JAH CHORUS — BETROTHAL — DEMPSTER  IN  HIS  OLD  AGE 

Reversing  the  wheel  of  Time  by  a  turn  or  two,  we  are 
in  the  thick  of  preparations  for  the  Christmas  of  1855. 

It  is  less  than  a  year  since  I  read  and  re-read  a  letter 
that  had  lain  among  the  leaves  of  my  journal  for  a  long 
term  of  years.  It  was  never  read  by  any  eyes  except  my 
own,  and  those  of  him  who  wrote  it.  In  the  solemn  con- 
viction that  for  any  other — no  matter  how  near  of  kin  and 
dear  of  heart — to  look  upon  the  lines,  would  be  profanation, 
I  burned  the  old  letter.  Life  is  short  and  uncertain.  I 
would  take  no  risks.  And  what  need  of  keeping  what  I 
can  never  lose  while  memory  remains  faithful  to  her  trust? 

I  require  no  written  or  printed  record  to  remind  me  what 
set  that  Yule-tide  apart  from  all  the  anniversaries  that 
had  preceded  it,  and  distinguished  it  from  all  that  were  to 
follow  in  its  train. 

We  had  had  a  guest  in  the  house  for  three  weeks.  A 
Musical  Convention — the  first  ever  held  in  Richmond — was 
in  session  under  the  conduct  of  Lowell  Mason  and  George 
Francis  Root.  My  father,  my  sister,  my  brother  Herbert, 
and  myself  were  members  of  a  flourishing  Sacred  Music 
Society,  composed  principally  of  amateurs,  and  we  had 
engaged  the  distinguished  leaders  in  the  profession  to  pre- 
side over  the  Conference,  by  which  it  was  hoped  public 
taste  in  the  matter  of  choir  and  congregational  singing 

297 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

might  be  improved.  Classes  were  formed  for  the  study  of 
methods  and  for  drill  in  vocalization.  The  course  would 
be  closed  by  a  grand  concert,  in  which  no  professional 
artists  would  take  part. 

The  thought  that  the  imported  leaders  in  the  programme 
should  be  allowed  to  put  up  at  a  hotel  was  opposed  to  the 
genius  of  Southern  hospitality.  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Lowell 
Mason  were  the  honored  guests  of  Mr.  Williams,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Society.  My  father  invited  Mr.  Root  "to  make 
our  house  his  home  while  he  was  in  our  city." 

That  was  the  old-fashioned  form  of  asking  strangers  to 
take  bit  and  sup  and  bed  with  us.  We  made  good  the 
words,  too.  The  "home"  was  theirs  as  truly  as  it  was 
ours.  The  Convention  was  advertised  to  last  ten  days. 
When  the  time  was  nearly  expired,  the  extraordinary  suc- 
cess of  the  experiment  induced  the  projectors  to  extend 
the  time  to  a  month.  Mr.  Root  was  for  removing  to  a 
hotel,  but  we  arose  up  in  arms  and  forbade  it.  His  bon- 
homie, intelligence,  and  general  attractiveness  of  man- 
ner and  disposition  had  endeared  him  to  us  all.  We  hailed 
as  a  reprieve  the  postponement  of  the  date  of  de- 
parture. He  had  never  seen  a  Virginia  Christmas,  and 
here  was  a  special  providence  he  must  not  overlook.  House- 
hold machinery  moved  as  if  he  had  not  been  there.  He 
entered  jovially  into  plans,  and  connived  at  confidences — 
the  necessary  deceits  that  are  to  be  condoned  by  agreeable 
surprises  in  the  fulness  of  time.  When  the  personage 
whom  Mea  had  long  ago  dubbed  "The  Young  Evangelist," 
appeared  upon  the  scene  a  week  in  advance  of  the  holiday, 
and  spent  three-fourths  of  each  day  under  our  hospitable 
roof — a  state  of  affairs  that  evidently  was  no  new  thing — 
the  Professor  took  in  the  situation  without  the  quiver  of 
an  eyelash,  and  asked  never  a  question.  He  did  more  to 
prove  how  cordially  he  was  one  with  the  family.  Discov- 
ering, in  the  course  of  the  first  evening  after  the  new  arrival 

20s 


A    MUSICAL    CONVENTION 

had  enlarged  our  circle,  that  he  had  an  exceptionally  fine 
voice,  and  knew  how  to  use  it,  he  pressed  him  eagerly  into 
service  as  "the  basso  he  had  been  longing  for,"  and  the 
two  sang  themselves  into  each  other's  good  graces  inside 
of  twenty-four  hours. 

I  had  had  a  cold  for  a  fortnight,  and  I  made  the  most  of 
my  demi-semi-invalidism  when  there  were  sessions  of  the 
Convention  at  uncanny  hours,  and  secured,  instead,  quiet 
evenings  at  home.  All  of  which  was  transparent  to  our 
Professor,  as  I  suspected  then,  and  knew  subsequently. 
He  did  not  disturb  a  tete-a-tete  one  December  afternoon 
by  bringing  down  into  the  parlor  a  freshly  written  sheet 
of  music  he  wished  to  try  on  the  piano.  His  quartetie 
clustered  about  the  instrument  at  his  summons,  and  the 
hymn  was  sung  over  and  over.  I  sat  by  the  fire  and  lis- 
tened.    At  the  third  repetition,  I  asked: 

"The  music  is  yours,  but  where  did  you  get  the  words?" 

Mr.  Root  answered  that  his  mother  had  clipped  them 
from  a  Western  paper,  and  handed  them  to  him.  The 
music  fitted  itself  to  them  in  his  mind  at  the  first  reading. 
He  struck  the  chords  boldly  in  saying  it,  and  the  four  ren- 
dered the  whole  hymn  with  spirit. 

"I  am  no  prophetess,"  I  commented,  "nor  the  daughter 
of  a  prophet;  but  I  predict  that  that  will  be  the  most  popu- 
lar of  your  compositions.  It  has  all  the  elements  of  life, 
and  a  long  life,  in  it.     Once  more,  please!" 

They  sang  it  with  a  will: 

"My  days  are  gliding  quickly  by, 
And  I,  a  pilgrim  stranger, 
Would  not  detain  them  as  they  fly, 

Those  hours  of  toil  and  danger. 
For,  oh,  we  stand  on  Jordan's  strand, 

Our  friends  are  passing  "over: 
And  just  before,  The  Shining  Shore, 
We  may  almost  discover." 
299 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Millions  have  sung  it  since.  Millions  more  will  yield 
heart,  soul,  and  voice  to  the  bound  and  swing  and  exultant 
leap  of  the  melody  "thought  out"  by  the  composer  in  the 
earliest  reading  of  the  anonymous  verses.  ''Almost"  has 
been  "quite"  with  him  for  many  a  year, 

It  was  during  that  Christmas  week  that  I  attended 
a  full  rehearsal  of  the  programme  to  be  given  at  the  grand 
concert.  Near  the  close  of  the  rehearsal,  Mr.  Root  came 
down  to  the  back  of  the  house  and  dropped  into  a  seat  by 
me,  among  the  auditors  and  lookers-on.  He  was  tired, 
he  explained,  "and  would  loaf  for  the  rest  of  the  affair." 
The  "affair"  wound  up  with  Handel's  Hallelujah  Chorus. 
My  "loafing"  neighbor  pricked  up  his  ears,  as  the  war- 
horse  at  sound  of  the  trumpet;  sat  upright  and  poured  the 
might  of  heart  and  voice  into  the  immortal  opus.  With 
the  precision  of  a  metronome,  and  the  fire  of  a  seraph,  he 
went  through  it,  from  the  first  to  the  last  note,  with  never 
a  book  or  score.  It  was  more  to  us,  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  near  him,  than  all  the  rest  of  the  performance. 

It  was  inevitable  that  two  of  us  should  recall  and  speak 
together  in  awed  tones,  of  Handel's  rejoinder  to  a  query, 
as  to  his  emotions  in  writing  the  Chorus: 

"I  did  verily  believe  that  I  saw  the  Great  White  Throne 
and  Him  Who  sat  thereon,  and  heard  the  harpers  harping 
with  their  harps,  and  all  God's  holy  angels." 

I  was  watching  the  fine,  uplifted  head  and  rapt  uncon- 
sciousness of  him  whose  whole  frame  throbbed  and 
thrilled  with  clarion  tones  that  pealed  out,  "Hallelujah! 
hallelujah!"  when  a  voice  on  the  other  side  of  me  mur- 
mured in  my  ear: 

"And  all  that  sat  there,  steadfast^  watching  him,  saw 
his  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel." 

I  cherish  a  hundred  pleasant  and  dear  memories  of  our 
musical  visitor.  I  like  none  other  so  well  as  this  vision. 
It  so  befell  that  my  one  and  only  visit  to  the  grave  of  Oliver 

300  * 


THE    HALLELUJAH    CHORUS— BETROTH AL 

Goldsmith  was  made  when  the  choir  of  the  adjacent  Temple 
church  was  practising  the  Hallelujah  Chorus.  Although 
in  the  heart  of  mighty  London,  the  place  was  strangely  still 
and  solitary.  We  lingered  there  until  the  last  chord  died 
into  silence.  It  was  not  necessary  for  either  of  us  to  put 
into  words  what  held  the  fancy  of  both.  Only — as  we 
turned  away  we  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  one  whis- 
pered, "He  is  singing  it,  still!" 

Engagements  of  marriage  were  never  announced  in  Old 
Virginia.  We  took  more  pains  to  keep  them  secret  than 
family  and  friends  take  nowadays  to  trumpet  them  abroad. 
Mr.  Derby  ran  on  from  New  York  to  spend  Christmas  and 
the  next  day  with  us.  He  came  and  departed  without  an 
intimation  of  any  change  in  the  feelings  and  prospects  of 
his  last  September  guest.  Mr.  Terhune  went  back  to  his 
Charlotte  parish;  letters  travelled  regularly  and  frequently 
back  and  forth.  Some  were  addressed  to  me;  more  bore 
my  brother's  name  on  the  envelope,  to  hoodwink  village 
post-office  gossips.  Young  men,  who  were  habitual  visitors, 
called  as  often  and  were  received  with  the  olden  friendli- 
ness; I  accepted  the  escort  of  this,  that,  and  the  other  one 
impartially,  and  at  will.  "The  Young  Evangelist"  was  in 
town  for  a  few  days  of  every  month,  and  was  more  with  us 
than  anywhere  else.  And  why  not?  He  had  visited  us 
more  intimately  than  at  any  other  house  during  his  six 
months'  occupancy  of  Doctor  Hoge's  pulpit.  It  happened 
repeatedly  that  he  was  one  of  three  or  four  callers  in  the 
evening.  On  these  occasions  he,  magnanimously,  as  he 
phrased  it,  "never  interfered  with  another  fellow's  run- 
ning." He  was  as  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  girls  who 
chanced  to  be  present  as  Ned  Rhodes,  Tom  Baxter,  or 
any  other  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  of  the  party  could  be  to 
me.  At  ten  o'clock  he  arose,  made  his  adieux  in  decorous 
sort  to  the  ladies  of  the  house  and  to  the  company  generally, 
and  withdrew.     If  nobody  showed   a   disposition  to  fol- 

301 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

low  his  example,  he,  to  quote  again  from  his  tactics,  "took 
account  of  stock,"  and,  having  assured  himself  that  the 
others  lived  in  different  directions,  appeared  in  the  open 
door,  overcoat  on,  hat  in  hand,  and  in  his  mouth  a  jaunty 
query  as  to  the  probability  of  having  company  in  his  walk 
to  the  Exchange  Hotel,  where  he  usually  put  up.  Few 
were  bold  enough  to  loiter  later  when  the  privileged 
habitue  of  the  house  showed  so  plainly  that  the  family 
kept  early  hours.  After  his  regrets  at  the  prospect  of  a 
lonely  tramp  were  uttered,  he  departed  in  good  earnest. 
He  had  made  but  a  few  rounds  of  the  block  when  the 
shutters  of  the  front  parlor  window  were  closed,  the  signal 
that  the  course  was  clear  for  a  return. 

In  mid-April  he  came  to  Richmond  to  receive  his  wid- 
owed sister,  who  passed  some  weeks  with  us.  Mea  and  I 
had  had  an  engagement  with  Messrs.  Rhodes  and  Baxter 
to  go  to  a  Dempster  concert.  The  pair  were  so  often  on 
escort  duty  that  they  were  dubbed  "The  Circumstances" 
by  our  saucy  brothers  and  sisters.  It  was,  according  to 
the  younglings,  a  settled  matter,  when  we  based  our  pros- 
pective presence  at  any  festive  scene  upon  "circumstances," 
that  Damon  and  his  Pythias  should  show  up  in  season 
to  take  us  thither. 

Mrs.  Greenleaf  arrived  on  Tuesday.  Her  brother  came 
by  the  noon  train  on  Wednesday.  It  was  not  until  I 
noted  the  grave  wonder  in  her  blue  eyes,  as  I  congratulated 
her  and  him  that  they  would  have  the  evening  to  them- 
selves and  home-talk,  that  it  dawned  upon  me  how  un- 
conventional was  the  proceeding  altogether.  North  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  it  would  have  been  downright  im- 
propriety for  an  engaged  girl  to  walk  off  coolly,  in  the 
escort  of  another  man,  within  a  few  hours  after  the  coming 
of  the  betrothed  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  a  month. 

The  person  who  would  be  supposed  to  suffer  most  dis- 
comfort from  the  outrage  to  conventionality  was,  fortu- 

302 


DEMPSTER    IN    HIS    OLD    AGE 

nately,  more  au  fait  to  Virginia  manners  and  social  usages 
than  his  relative.  When  I  took  an  opportunity  to  express 
misgivings  lest  I  might  lose  ground  in  her  good  graces  if 
I  kept  the  engagement  to  hear  the  famous  ballad-singer, 
I  was  bidden  not  to  "waste  a  thought  on  that  matter,  but 
to  enjoy  the  concert  with  all  my  heart.  For  his  part,  he 
was  delighted  that  I  had  the  chance  to  go." 

So,  when  our  escorts  appeared,  I  carried  off  a  light 
heart,  and  was  obedient  to  the  injunction  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  that  Dempster,  then  evidently  in  the  decadence 
of  his  powers,  could  give  a  music-lover. 

I  heard  him  but  that  once.  I  do  not  regret  that  I 
went  then,  although  sadness  mingled  with  pleasure  while 
we  listened.  Dempster's  rendition  of  English  ballads, 
without  other  accompaniment  than  the  piano  played  by 
himself,  with  no  effort  after  brilliancy  of  execution,  had 
moved  two  continents  to  smiles  and  tears.  One  searches 
vainly  for  his  name  in  cyclopaedias  and  dictionary  lists 
of  the  famous  dead.  He  was  now  a  gray  and  flabby 
oldish  man.  His  voice  was  broken  in  the  high  register, 
and  thickened  on  the  lower;  his  breath  was  irregular  and 
short.  Yet  certain  passages — notably  in  the  Irish  Emi- 
grant's Lament — had  sympathetic  sweetness  that  helped 
one  to  credit  the  stories  of  his  former  successes.  He  sang 
Tennyson's  May  Queen  all  through,  not  skipping  a  stanza 
of  the  three  parts.  It  was  a  dreary  performance,  that 
grew  absolutely  painful  before  the  consumptive  was  finally 
relegated  to  the  bourne 

"Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  sighed  Mr.  Rhodes  as  the  last  word 
quavered  forth;  and  Mea — "She  ought  to  apologize 
for  being  such  an  unconscionably  long  time  in  dying." 


XXXI 

WEDDING    BELLS — A    BRIDAL    TOUR — A    DISCOVERED    RELA- 
TIVE— A    NOBLE    LIFE 

"Richmond,  August  \(Sth,  1856. 

"My  very  dear  Effie, — My  long  silence  lias  seemed 
strange  and  may  have  appeared  unkind  to  you,  but  there 
have  been  a  thousand  hindrances  to  my  writing. 

"A  sudden  fit  of  illness  interrupted  the  health  that  had 
remained  firm  throughout  the  warm  spring  weather,  and 
obliged  me  to  make  my  visit  to  Goochland  earlier  than  I  in- 
tended. For  a  week  or  more  after  my  arrival  there  I  was 
worse  than  I  had  been  at  home.  When  I  began  to  recover, 
the  amendment  was  rapid. 

"To  cut  short  these  details,  I  am  most  unromantically  well 
and  robust,  am  gaining  flesh  daily,  and  boast  an  appetite  that 
would  throw  a  sentimental  young  woman  into  convulsions 
were  she  to  witness  my  gastronomic  exploits.  Yet  I  have  de- 
layed writing  to  you  because  I  wished  to  arrange  everything 
relating  to  the  final  'performances'  before  notifying  you  of 
the  same. 

"There  have  been  sundry  alterations  in  the  programme 
since  you  and  I  last  consulted  over  these  things,  the  principal 
of  which  is  the  change  of  the  day  and  hour.  We  expect,  now, 
to  leave  home  on  Tuesday  fortnight  (September  2d)  in  the 
morning,  instead  of  (as  was  first  spoken  of)  on  the  afternoon 
of  Wednesday,  the  3d.  This  will  allow  us  two  days  in  Phila- 
delphia, and,  being  the  plan  most  approved  of  by  father  and 
Mr.  Terhune,  of  course  I  am  submissive. 

"The  bridal  party  will  spend  both  Monday  and  Tuesday 
evenings,  besides  breakfasting  here  on  Tuesday  morning.  So 
you  girls  may  bring  evening  dresses. 

304 


WEDDING     BELLS 

"The  bridesmaids  are  to  wear  blue  muslin  or  lawn  skirts, 
with  white  muslin  basques — a  neat  breakfast  costume  that 
will  look  pretty  as  a  uniform,  and  be  becoming  to  all  of  you, 
without  throwing  my  quiet  travelling  attire  too  much  into 
the  shade.  You  know  that  at  a  morning  wedding  it  is  cus- 
tomary for  each  to  dress  as  she  pleases.  This  never  pleased 
my  fancy.  The  company  wears  a  motley  look.  Full  bridal 
robes  would  be  equally  out  of  place.  Therefore,  we  have 
selected  this  medium. 

"Now,  ma  chere  !  cannot  you  keep  your  intention  of  the 
Richmond  trip  as  profound  a  secret  as  you  have  other  mat- 
ters we  wot  of?  Your  father  and  mother  must  be  apprized 
of  it,  and  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Graves;  but,  for  a  few  days,  cannot 
the  story  be  kept  within  the  two  families?  I  trust  you  to 
do  this  for  me. 

"The  Charlotte  party  will  come  down  on  Monday,  the  1st. 
We  shall  expect  you  and  Virginia  some  days  in  advance  of 
that  date.  I  hope  to  have  everything  in  readiness,  even  to 
packing  my  trunks,  by  the  middle  of  the  preceding  week, 
and  to  have  time  to  enjo}r  your  society.  Write  as  soon  as  your 
plans  are  formed,  and  let  that  time  be  very  soon.  As  to  my 
trousseau — thanks  to  nimble  and  kind  fingers,  the  work  is 
nearly  done.  Next  week  my  time  is  to  be  divided  between 
the  dressmaker  and  a  gentleman  who  writes  that  he  has 
'business  to  attend  to  in  Richmond/  and  who,  it  is  fair  to 
presume,  may  call  occasionally.  The  latest  gossip  is  that 
there  is  to  be  a  double  wedding  here  next  month;  that  both 
sisters  are  to  be  dressed  precisely  alike  and  be  married  in 
the  evening.  Therefore,  come  prepared  for  the  worst — or 
the  best,  as  the  case  may  seem. 

"To  drop  business  and  jesting  together — it  is  very  hard 
to  realize  that,  if  Providence  permit,  one  little  fortnight  will 
bring  such  a  change  into  my  life.  Here,  in  the  home  of  my 
girlhood,  where  all  else  is  unaltered,  and  I  seem  to  be  welded, 
as  it  were,  into  the  household  chain,  I  cannot  believe  that 
my  place  is  so  soon  to  be  vacant.  Brain  and  heart  are  so 
full  of  crowding  thoughts  and  emotions  that  I  marvel  how  I 
preserve  a  composed  demeanor.     The  past,  with  its  tender 

305 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  hallowed  memories;  the  present,  with  a  wealth  of  calm, 
real  happiness;  the  bright,  although  vague  future,  alike  strive 
to  enchain  my  mind. 

"I  long  to  see  you;  to  have  a  good,  old-fashioned  chat,  a 
familiar  interchange  of  our  plans  and  our  hopes.  There  is  a 
sentence  in  your  last  that  promises  much — a  promise  I  shall 
surely  call  upon  you  to  redeem  when  we  meet.  I  would  have 
you  feel  that  by  this  union  you  gain,  not  lose  a  friend.  .  .  . 

"My  love  to  your  mother  and  to  'Cousin  Mag.'  May  I  not 
ask  from  them  a  sincere  'God-speed'? 

"You  will  not  disappoint  me,  now,  dear  one?  Write  at 
once  that  you  are  all  coming.  You  and  Virginia  G.  will 
require  little  preparation — besides  the  blue  skirt  and  the  thin 
muslin  spencer  (which  you  are  sure  to  have!),  a  pair  of  white 
gloves  will  be  all  you  need. 

"This  is  a  hasty  and,  I  fear,  an  incoherent  letter,  but  a  full 
freight  of  love  goes  with  it.     As  I  began,  I  end  with  'Come!'" 

As  may  be  gathered  from  this  letter,  the  wedding  was 
to  be  a  simple  affair — so  quiet  that  it  could  not  be  called 
a  social  function. 

We  were  of  one  mind  on  that  point.  To  secure  the  pres- 
ence of  our  most  intimate  friends,  we  went  through  the 
form  of  selecting  bridesmaids  and  groomsmen.  It  was  the 
custom  to  have  a  long  train  of  attendants  at  large  wedding- 
parties,  and  we  took  advantage  of  the  fashion  to  limit  the 
company  to  be  assembled  on  that  early  September  morning 
to  "the  bridal  party"  and  the  family.  The  exceptions  to 
the  limit  were  dear  old  Doctor  Haxall  (whose  wife  was  out 
of  town)  and  three  friends  of  the  bridegroom.  Two  were 
from  New  Jersey  and  family  connections,  although  not 
related  by  blood.  The  other  was  Mr.  Word,  of  Charlotte, 
the  gentlest-hearted  of  old  bachelors — known  affectionately 
by  his  intimates  as  "Cousin  Jimmy." 

Genial  old  saint!  My  heart  swells  now  at  the  flash- 
light picture  fastened  upon  memory  of  my  first  sight  of, 
and  speech  with  hum    He  was  more  closely  shaven  than 

306 


WEDDING    BELLS 

I  ever  saw  him  afterward — and  he  was  ever  the  pink  of 
neatness.  An  expanse  of  white  vest  and  shirt-bosom  cov- 
ered a  broad  chest  that  palpitated  visibly,  as,  enfolding 
my  hand  in  both  of  his,  he  said,  in  the  best  manner  of  the 
gentleman  of  the  old  school  (and  there  are  no  finer  gentle- 
men anywhere) : 

"My  dear  madam,  let  me  entreat  you  to  regard  me  from 
this  moment  as  a  Brother!" 

No  capitals  can  endow  the  word  with  the  meaning  he 
put  into  it.     He  fulfilled  his  part  of  the  compact -nobly. 

To  go  back  to  the  preparation  for  the  quiet  bridal :  A 
Richmond  fashion  I  have  never  known  elsewhere,  and  which 
outlasted  the  war  by  some  years,  was  that  the  bride-elect 
and  two  or  three  of  her  bridesmaids  drove  from  house  to 
house  a  day,  or  two  or  three,  before  the  marriage,  and  left 
cards  upon  acquaintances  who  were  not  bidden  to  the 
ceremony.  This  was  done  in  cases  where,  as  with  me,  it 
was  to  be  a  house-wedding,  and  the  attendants  were  con- 
fined to  a  few  family  friends.  If  there  were  to  be  a  church- 
wedding,  followed  by  a  reception,  or  if  the  ceremony  at 
home  were  to  be  witnessed  by  a  large  party  of  guests,  the 
drive  and  delivery  of  cards  preceded  the  "occasion"  by  a 
week  or  ten  days.  To  send  an  invitation  to  any  social 
gathering  by  post  would  be  a  transgression  of  decorum 
and  precedent — a  cheap  trick  unworthy  of  any  one  toler- 
ably well  versed  in  social  forms.  The  delivery  by  the  bride 
and  her  suite  was  delicately  complimentary  to  those  she 
wished  to  honor. 

In  furtherance  of  our  design  of  keeping  even  the  date 
of  the  marriage  secret  up  to  the  last  possible  hour,  we  had 
delayed  the  delivery  of  my  "P.  P.  C."  cards  until  Monday. 

At  the  very  bottom  of  the  box  of  time-discolored  letters 
preserved  by  the  friend  of  my  childhood  and  intimate  of 
my  girlhood,  I  found  one  of  these  cards.  Time's  thumb- 
marks  have  not  spared  the  bit  of  glazed  pasteboard.     My 

21  307 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

maiden  name  is  there,  and,  in  the  left-hand  lower  corner, 
"P.  P.  C."  That  was  all  the  information  it  deigned  to  give 
the  curious  and  the  friendly.  I  was  going  away — some- 
where.    Just  when  and  where  was  nobody's  business. 

It  will  hardly  be  believed  that  we  kept  our  own  counsel 
so  well  that  our  own  servants,  while  they  might  have  their 
suspicions,  were  only  certain  that  I  was  going  North  on 
Tuesday,  as  I  had  often  gone  on  other  summers,  and  that 
the  girls  who  had  been  visiting  me  for  a  week  were  to  re- 
main to  a  party  my  sister  would  give  on  Tuesday  evening. 
Not  until  Monday  morning  were  any  of  them,  except 
"Mammy  Rachel,"  informed  what  was  on  foot. 

The  day  dawned — if  dawn  it  could  be  called — through 
steady  sheets  of  rain.  No  delusive  adage  of  "Rain  before 
seven,  clear  before  eleven"  ever  gained  currency  in  Rich- 
mond. It  was  as  clear  to  our  dismayed  souls  that  this 
was  an  all-day  rain,  as  that  the  drive  and  cards  could  not 
be  postponed  until  to-morrow.  Sampson,  the  carriage- 
driver,  whom  we  did  not  dub  "coachman"  until  after  the 
war,  was  notified  by  the  mouth  of  Tom,  the  young  dining- 
room  servant,  that  he  must  have  the  carriage  at  the  door 
at  ten  o'clock,  and  prepare  for  a  long  expedition.  We 
were  at  the  breakfast-table  when  word  came  back  that 
"it  warn't  a  fittin'  day  for  no  young  ladies  to  go  out.  Nor 
for  his  carriage  an'  horses.  De  ladies  will  have  to  put  off 
their  shoppin'  for  another  time." 

Mea  turned  upon  the  respectful  emissary  with  the  snap 
of  the  eyes  and  incisive  accent  he  knew  full  well: 

"Say  to  Sampson  that  Miss  Virginia  is  to  be  married 
to-morrow,  and  that  we  have  to  take  out  cards.  He  will 
be  here  on  time!" 

We  had  an  answer  before  we  left  our  chairs. 

"Yes,  ma'am!  He  says  he'd  go  if  it  killed  him  and  the 
horses!" 

We  set  forth  at  the  appointed  hour.     Mea,  Effie,  Vir- 

308 


A    BRIDAL    TOUR 

ginia  Graves,  and  myself,  wrapped  up  as  for  a  winter 
journey,  but  in  as  high  spirits  as  if  the  sun  had  shone  and 
birds  sung  blithely  in  trees  that  shivered  and  shrank  and 
streamed  under  the  weight  of  the  bitter  rain.  Poor  Tom— 
for  the  nonce,  the  footman  whose  duty  it  was  to  jump 
down  from  his  perch  at  every  door  before  which  we  sig- 
nalled Sampson  to  stop,  to  receive  the  enveloped  card  upon 
a  silver  tray,  and  to  scamper  up  a  walk  or  up  a  flight  of 
steps,  his  umbrella  held  low  over  the  precious  consignment 
—had  the  worst  of  it  all.  He  was  soaked  to  the  skin  by 
the  time  the  route  was  finished  and  we  turned  homeward. 
We  were  out  four  hours.  And  in  all  the  four  hours  the 
rain  never  intermitted  one  drop,  and  the  wind  only  changed 
from  the  east  to  blow  from  all  quarters  of  the  heavens  at 
once.  If  coachman  and  patient  footman  were  drenched, 
we  were  more  than  moist,  and  so  chilled  that  we  rejoiced 
with  exceeding  great  joy  at  the  sight  of  blazing  fires  in 
chambers  and  dining-room  on  our  return. 

The  home  atmosphere  was  all  that  it  should  be  on  the 
eve  of  the  first  wedding  in  a  household  where  the  happi- 
ness of  one  was  the  joy  of  all.  Maybe  I  took  it  too  much 
as  a  matter  of  course,  then.  I  value  the  recollection  with 
something  akin  to  jealous  fondness.  How,  all  day  long, 
while  the  skies  streamed  without  and  the  wind  dashed  the 
water  by  pailfuls  against  the  windows,  mirth  and  frolic 
within  went  on  like  a  peal  of  joy-bells,  and  every  look, 
gesture,  and  word  carried  to  my  heart  the  sweet  persua- 
sion that  I  was  not  absent  from  the  thoughts  of  one  of 
them  for  a  moment. 

So  certain  were  we  that  nothing  could  "gang  agley" — 
and  this  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm  that  had  abated  naught 
of  its  fury  by  nightfall — that  when  Herbert,  who  had  gone 
to  the  station  to  meet  the  Charlotte  party  (including  Doctor 
Hoge,  who  was  returning  from  his  vacation),  brought  back 
a  rueful  countenance  and  the  news  that  "the  flood  had 

309 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

washed  away  a  bridge  on  the  Danville  Railway  and  made 
it  impracticable  for  trains  to  run  for  twenty-four  hours,"  we 
fell  upon  him  with  a  hail-storm  of  laughing  reproaches  that 
swept  away  the  pretence  of  sorrowful  sympathy. 

How  could  anything  go  wrong?  Not  one  of  us  was 
hoaxed  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

We  took  for  granted,  with  the  like  gay  confidence,  that 
the  tempest  would  rage  itself  faint  by  morning.  It  was 
no  surprise  that  the  day  was  so  brilliantly  clear,  so  fresh 
and  fragrant,  that  Doctor  Hoge  was  reminded  of 

"The  rose  that  was  newly  washed  by  the  shower" — 

and,  after  the  ceremony,  strayed  from  one  to  another  of  the 
thirty  present,  asking  if  any  one  could  tell  him  who  was 
the  author  of  the  line. 

Which  quest,  when  comparison  of  notes  elicited  the 
fact  that  ten  persons  had  been  catechised,  took  a  place 
among  our  family  jests. 

One  incident  of  the  journey  to  Washington  stands  out 
in  my  mind  among  the  thousand  and  one  "coincidences," 
falsely  so-called,  that  star  or  mar  every  human  life,  if  we 
will  but  heed  them  and  their  consequences.  Mr.  Terhune, 
and  Mr.  Cardwell,  one  of  the  groomsmen,  who  went  as  far 
as  Baltimore  with  us,  on  his  way  to  speak  at  a  political 
meeting,  had  gone  to  look  to  the  luggage  after  settling  me 
in  the  car  in  Richmond.  The  air  was  close,  and  I  tried  to 
raise  the  window  by  me. 

"Allow  me!"  said  a  pleasant  voice  in  my  ear,  and  a 
strong  hand  reached  forward  to  perform  the  trifling  service. 

I  said,  over  my  shoulder,  "Thank  you!"  catching  sight 
of  a  fine,  manly  face,  lighted  by  a  pair  of  kind,  gray  eyes. 
I  saw  the  shadow  of  the  hand  that  went  up  to  his  hat,  as 
he  uttered  some  conventional  phrase  in  acknowledgment, 
and  thought  no  more  of  him  until  we  had  taken  the  Potomac 

310 


A  DISCOVERED    RELATIVE— A  NOBLE   LIFE 

boat  at  Acquia  Creek.  I  recognized  my  neighbor  of  the 
train  then,  in  the  tall  man  who  tramped  the  deck  to  stretch 
long  limbs  cramped  by  sitting  in  the  car,  and  checked  his 
walk  to  pick  up  and  comfort  a  child  that  fell  headlong  in 
running  away  from  its  nurse.  I  was  struck  by  the  gentle- 
ness of  the  handsome  giant  in  handling  the  baby,  and  the 
tact  he  displayed  in  taking  the  weeper  in  his  arms,  and 
directing  his  attention  to  a  passing  steamer.  The  little 
fellow  stopped  crying  at  once,  and,  when  the  frightened 
nurse  found  the  runaway,  he  clung  to  the  stranger's  neck, 
much  to  the  amusement  of  the  latter.  He  carried  him  to 
the  far  end  of  the  boat,  talking  cheerily  with  him,  and 
finally  handed  him  over  to  the  woman,  with  a  kiss  upon 
the  baby-lips  held  up  to  him. 

The  call  to  dinner  diverted  my  mind  from  the  little 
scene,  and  it  was  not  until  we  were  in  our  hotel  in 
Washington  that  I  alluded  to  it,  and  told  Mr.  Terhune 
of  the  courtesy  the  stranger  had  rendered  me  on  the 
train. 

"I  wish  you  had  mentioned  it  before,"  he  said.  "I 
should  have  thanked  him.  I  saw  him  at  the  hotel  last 
night.  His  name  is  Brookes,  I  think.  He  is  a  cousin  of 
Doctor  Hoge.  By-the-way,  he  must  be  related  to  your 
mother.     And" — laughingly — "naturally,  to  yourself." 

"Of  course!"  I  broke  in,  excitedly.  "I  wish  I  had 
guessed  who  he  was.  It  must  be  the  Rev.  James  Brookes, 
my  mother's  cousin.  You  needn't  laugh!  and  you  must 
not  say  'Another?'  He  is  a  splendid  fellow.  His  mother 
was  Judith  Lacy,  and  named  for  my  grandmother!" 

As  the  genealogist  of  the  family,  I  reckoned  up  the 
"handsome  giant"  forthwith.  I  even  knew  incidents  of 
his  family  history  he  never  heard  until  I  rehearsed  them 
to  him  in  his  St.  Louis  home,  thirty  years  afterward.  He 
was,  by  then,  to  me  the  best-beloved  of  all  my  clerical 
kinsmen.     I  upbraided  him,  when  we  were  made  known  to 

311 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

one  another,  for  not  letting  me  know  who  he  was  at  our 
first  encounter. 

"My  dear  cousin!  On  your  wedding-day!"  was  his  ex- 
clamation. "Even  the  tie  of  kindred  blood  would  not 
have  justified  the  intermeddling  of  a  stranger  at  that 
time." 

We  made  up  for  the  delay  of  a  quarter-century  by  full 
and  glad  recognition  of  the  blood-claim.  He  was  a  master 
in  Israel;  eloquent  in  the  pulpit;  as  a  writer,  strong  and 
convincing ;  in  parish  ministrations,  as  tender  as  a  woman 
and  helpful  as  a  brother.  He  adorned  his  profession;  as 
a  citizen  he  fought  evil  with  a  lion's  strength,  and  succored 
the  erring  with  the  wisdom  of  Paul,  the  gentleness  of  John. 

What  strength  and  comfort  I  drew  from  intimate  asso- 
ciation with  this  wise,  tender,  and  leal  kinsman,  may  not 
be  told  here.  I  can  never  acknowledge  it  aright  until  I 
speak  with  the  tongue  of  angels. 

More  than  a  dozen  years  have  passed  since  the  Easter 
noon,  when  the  lightning  leaped  along  a  thousand  miles  of 
telegraph  lines,  to  bring  me  this  message  from  his  son-in-law : 

"James  H.  Brookes  fell  asleep  at  sunrise  on  Easter  morning." 

Since  that  glorious  awakening  he  has  dwelt  forever  with 
the  Lord. 


XXXII 

PARSONAGE  LIFE — WILLIAM  WIRT  HENRY — HISTORIC    SOIL — 
JOHN  RANDOLPH — THE    LAST    OF    THE    RANDOLPHS 

The  village  of  Charlotte  Court-House  was  a  rambling 
hamlet  in  1856.  The  plank-road  from  the  nearest  rail- 
way station  ("Drake's  Branch")  entered  the  village  at 
one  side,  and  cut  abruptly  into  the  main  street.  This 
thoroughfare  meandered  leisurely  from  a  country  road  at 
each  end,  through  the  entire  length  of  the  shiretown.  It 
was  lined  irregularly  with  public  and  private  buildings. 
The  Court  House,  three  or  four  stores,  a  couple  of  hotels, 
and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  residences,  made  up  the  nucleus 
of  the  place.  Beyond,  and  on  either  side,  dwellings— some 
of  brick,  some  of  wood — were  surrounded  by  spacious 
grounds  embracing  shrubbery,  plantations,  groves,  and 
gardens.  The  "  Village  Church,"  a  brick  edifice  hoary  with 
years,  and  redolent  of  ecclesiastical  traditions,  stood  at  the 
left  of  the  plank  turnpike  as  one  approached  the  village 
from  the  station.  A  porticoed  manor-house,  that  had  a 
history  almost  as  old,  faced  it  across  lawn  and  shrubbery 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  When  one  had  left  the 
turnpike  for  the  main  street,  and  driven  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  or  so  toward  the  "real  country,"  one  passed  the 
Parsonage.  It  stood  well  away  from  the  street,  from 
which  it  was  screened  by  a  grove  of  native  oaks.  Behind 
it  lay  a  large  yard,  at  one  side  of  which  were  the  kitchen 
and  other  domestic  offices.  A  picket  fence  divided  the 
yard  from  a  garden,  and  at  the  left  of  this  were  the  stables 

313 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  pasture.  Back  of  the  garden  a  field  lost  itself  in  a 
wood  of  virgin  growth. 

The  house  was  a  white  cottage,  a  story-and-a-half  high, 
fronted  and  backed  by  wide  porches.  A  hall  cut  the  lower 
floor  in  half,  and  ran  from  the  entrance  to  the  back  door. 
On  the  left  of  the  hall  was  a  parlor  of  fair  dimensions,  with 
windows  at  the  front  and  rear.  "The  chamber,"  of  like 
shape  and  proportions,  was  on  the  other  side.  The 
dining-room  was  one  wing,  and  "the  study"  another. 
Both  connected  directly  with  a  deep  portico  which  filled 
the  intermediate  space.  Two  bedrooms  above  stairs,  and 
a  store-room  adjoining  the  dining-room,  completed  the  tale 
of  rooms. 

A  modest  establishment  in  very  truth,  but  not  con- 
temptible from  the  Old  Virginia  standpoint.  Small  as  it 
was,  we  did  not  have  it  to  ourselves  until  after  Christmas. 
I  esteemed  this  a  fortunate  circumstance  from  the  first, 
considering  how  much  I  had  to  learn  of  housekeeping  and 
parish  work.  Subsequently,  I  knew  it  for  one  of  the  signal 
blessings  of  a  life  that  has  been  affluent  in  goodness  and 
mercy. 

For  the  occupants  of  the  Parsonage,  pending  the  com- 
pletion of  a  house  of  their  own  in  building  at  the  other 
end  of  the  village,  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wirt  Henry,  a  young 
married  couple  with  one  child.  They  had  rented  the  cot- 
tage for  the  year  ending  January  1st,  and  kindly  consented 
to  receive  us  as  boarders  until  the  term  had  expired. 

From  the  moment  that  Wirt  Henry  came  out  to  assist 
me  to  alight  from  the  carriage  that  had  brought  us  from 
the  station,  one  mid-October  day,  to  the  end  of  his  honored 
and  useful  life,  his  friendship  for  us  knew  no  variableness 
nor  shadow  of  turning.  He  was  already  my  husband's 
staunch  right  hand  in  church  and  community.  He  took 
me  upon  trust  for  the  time.  I  learned  to  love  husband 
and  wife  long    before  we    became   separate   households. 

314 


WILLIAM    WIRT     HENRY— HISTORIC    SOIL 

To  this  day,  his  widow  is  to  me  as  a  sister.  In  the 
care-free  three  months  of  our  happy  companionship,  Mrs. 
Henry  helped  me  tactfully  through  the  initial  stages  of 
acquaintanceship  with  parish  and  neighborhood.  To  the 
manor  born,  and  connected  by  blood  with  two-thirds  of 
the  best  families  in  the  county,  her  gentle  " coaching"  was 
an  inestimable  benefit  to  the  stranger  within  her  gates. 

Her  husband  was  a  grandson  of  Patrick  Henry,  and  a 
lawyer  of  note,  although  not  yet  thirty  years  of  age.  He 
attained  eminence  in  his  native  county  as  time  went  on, 
and  in  Richmond,  to  which  city  he  removed  after  the 
War.  His  Life  and  Letters  of  Patrick  Henry  is  a  standard 
biographical  and  historical  classic;  he  filled  with  distinc- 
tion several  public  offices,  among  them  that  of  President 
of  the  American  Historical  Society,  and  Delegate  to  the 
Historical  Congress  at  The  Hague,  in  1897. 

In  private  life  he  was  the  best  of  husbands  and  fathers, 
sweet-hearted  to  the  core,  a  thorough  gentleman  always 
and  everywhere,  and  a  genial  and  delightful  comrade. 
When  I  turned  study  and  pen  in  the  direction  of  Colonial 
historical  research,  he  was  an  invaluable  auxiliary.  I  told 
him,  over  and  over,  that  he  was  to  me  an  exhaustless  reser- 
voir of  information.  I  had  only  to  open  a  sluiceway,  to 
draw  in  copious  measure  in  my  hour  of  need.  As  a  faint 
expression  of  my  sense  of  overwhelming  obligation  to  him, 
I  dedicated  to  him  my  first  volume  on  Colonial  Home- 
steads and  Their  Stories,  published  in  1896. 

I  cannot  say  that  my  thirst  for  Colonial  traditions  and 
histories  was  created  by  my  residence  in  Charlotte.  From 
childhood  I  had  been  indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of  gene- 
alogical details  and  the  tales  of  real  life  and  happenings 
collected  from  the  converse  of  my  elders  of  the  "former 
days,"  which  they  rated  as  better  than  these  in  defiance  of 
Solomon's  admonition.  But  it  was  not  possible  to  live 
for  three  years,  as  I  did,  in  a  region  where  the  very  earth 

315 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  soaked  in  historical  associations;  where  every  other 
name  mentioned  in  my  hearing  was  interwoven  with  re- 
citals of  deeds  of  valor  and  of  statesmanship  performed  by 
the  fathers  of  American  history,  and  not  be  kindled  into 
zealous  prosecution  of  my  favorite  studies. 

The  Court  House,  built  in  1823,  was  designed  by  Thomas 
Jefferson.  A  more  interesting  building  was  a  shabby, 
tumbledown  house,  not  far  from  the  site  of  the  newer 
and  better  edifice.  It  was  the  " Court  House"  in  the 
stirring  days  when  the  paternal  Government  would  not 
squander  money  upon  Colonial  seats  of  justice.  From  the 
porch  of  this,  Patrick  Henry  delivered  his  last  speech  to 
his  adoring  constituents.  He  was  tottering  upon  the  verge 
of  the  grave,  into  which  he  sank  gently  a  few  weeks  later. 
A  crisis  of  national  and  state  importance  had  called  him 
from  his  home  at  Red  Hill,  a  dozen  miles  away.  Keyed  up 
by  a  sense  of  the  imminence  of  the  peril  to  the  country  he 
had  saved,  his  magnificent  will-power  responded  to  the 
call;  the  dying  fire  leaped  high.  He  had  never  reasoned 
more  cogently,  never  pleaded  with  more  power  than  on 
that  day.  But  as  the  last  word  fell  from  his  lips,  he  sank 
fainting  into  the  arms  of  his  attendants.  Dr.  John  Holt 
Rice  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  As  the  dying 
lion  fell  in  his  tracks,  the  clergyman  cried  out:  "The  sun 
has  set  in  all  his  glory!" 

From  the  same  homely  rostrum  John  Randolph  (whose 
homestead  of  " Roanoke"  is  but  a  few  miles  from  the 
county-seat)  made  his  maiden  speech,  and  addressed  for 
the  last  time  those  of  whom  he  declared — "No  other 
man  ever  had  such  constituents."  In  this  address  he 
recounted  the  history  of  that  relation,  from  the  hour  when 
the  beardless  boy  had  raised  his  reedy  voice  to  confute 
the  arguments  of  the  people's  idol — Patrick  Henry — to 
the  date  of  this,  his  resignation  of  his  office. 

"Men  of  Charlotte!"    The  piercing  voice  that  carried 

316 


JOHN    RANDOLPH 

further  in  his  weakness  than  more  stentorian  tones,  sent 
the  farewell  to  the  outskirts  of  the  breathless  throng — 
"Forty  years  ago  you  confided  this  sacred  trust  to  me. 
Take  it  back !    Take  it  back !' ' 

The  gesture,  as  of  rolling  a  ponderous  weight  from  heart 
and  arms,  was  never  forgotten  by  those  who  saw  it.  With 
it  he  left  the  platform,  mounted  his  horse  without  another 
word,  and  rode  off  to  Roanoke. 

Mr.  Jacob  Michaux,  of  Powhatan  County,  was  at  that 
time  a  student  in  Hampden-Sidney  College,  and  came  over 
to  Charlotte  for  the  express  purpose  of  hearing  the  famous 
orator.  I  had  from  his  lips  the  description  of  the  scene. 
John  Randolph,  as  is  well  known,  never  used  notes  in 
speaking.  It  sent  a  sort  of  shudder,  therefore,  through  the 
audience,  when  he  took  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket 
and  opened  it,  saying: 

"The  infirmities  of  advancing  age,  and  the  consequent 
failure  of  memory,  have  made  it  expedient  that  I  should 
bring  with  me  to-day  a  few  notes  to  remind  me  of  what  I 
would  say  to  you." 

He  held  the  paper  in  his  hand  while  speaking,  and 
referred  to  it  twice  in  the  exordium.  Warming  to  his 
work,  he  waved  it  aloft  in  his  impassioned  gesticulation, 
evidently  forgetful  of  it  and  what  was  written  on  it.  At 
last,  it  escaped  from  his  fingers  and  fluttered  down  to  Mr. 
Michaux's  feet.  The  crowd,  engrossed  in  the  fervid  oratory, 
did  not  notice  what  had  happened.  The  student  put  his 
foot  upon  the  bit  of  paper,  without  change  of  place  or 
position.  "It  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I  would  secure 
it  when  the  speech  was  over,  and  keep  it  as  a  souvenir,"  he 
said.  "The  next  moment  I  forgot  it,  and  everything  else 
except  what  the  man  before  me  was  saying.  It  was  a 
Vesuvian  tide  of  eloquence,  and  carried  thought,  feeling, 
imagination  along  with  it.  One  hears  nothing  like  it  in 
these  degenerate  days.     I  did  not  recollect  the  paper  until 

317 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  was  a  mile  away  from  the  Court  House,  and  the  orator's 
voice  began  to  die  out  of  my  ears." 

What  a  souvenir  that  would  have  been!  I  do  not  know 
that  this  anecdote  has  ever  been  published  before.  I  had 
it,  as  I  have  said,  directly  from  Mr.  Michaux's  lips,  and 
vouch  for  the  authenticity. 

Many  of  the  stories  that  clung  to  the  Parsonage  had  to 
do  with  the  Orator  of  Roanoke.  The  house  was  at  one  time 
the  home  of  Captain  "Jack"  Marshall,  the  father  of  the 
late  Judge  Hunter  Marshall.  The  latter  was,  during  our 
residence  in  Charlotte,  a  near  neighbor  and  charming  ac- 
quaintance. His  father,  "Captain  Jack,"  was  one  of  the 
cronies  whom  John  Randolph's  eccentricities  and  fits  of 
violent  rage  had  not  estranged.  Politically,  his  constit- 
uents adored  Randolph.  Personally,  they  found  him  in- 
tolerable. Mrs.  Eggleston,  of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to 
say  by-and-by,  told  me  of  visiting  a  playfellow  in  the 
Marshall  home  while  John  Randolph  was  staying  with 
Captain  Marshall.  The  two  little  girls  were  busy  with 
their  dolls  in  the  lower  hall,  when  a  hand-bell  was  rung 
furiously  above  stairs. 

Little  Lucy  looked  wonderingly  at  her  companion. 

"Who  is  that?    And  what  does  it  mean?" 

"Oh,  it's  Mr.  Randolph  trying  to  frighten  away  the 
devil.  He  has  just  got  up,  you  see,  and  he  says  the  devil 
creeps  from  under  his  bed  as  soon  as  he  wakes  up." 

The  ringing  continued  at  intervals  for  some  minutes, 
and  Lucy,  terrified  by  the  fancy  that  the  fleeing  demon 
might  appear  on  the  stairs,  ran  off  home  with  the  tale. 

"My  mother  had  heard  it  often,  before,"  said  my  friend, 
laughing  at  my  horrified  incredulity.  "It  was  but  one  of 
his  crazy  antics.  No-o-o!"  doubtfully,  as  I  put  a  question. 
"I  don't  believe  it  was  delirium  tremens.  Pie  took  opium 
at  times.  I  don't  know  that  he  drank  heavily.  Every- 
body took  his  toddy  in  those  days,  you  know.    John  Ran- 

318 


JOHN     RANDOLPH 

dolph  was  queer,  through  and  through,  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave,  and  like  no  other  man  that  ever  lived!  We 
children  were  terribly  afraid  of  him." 

One  of  the*  numerous  stories  Mr.  Henry  told  of  the  ec- 
centric was  of  his  asking  a  neighboring  planter  who  was 
dining  at  Roanoke,  if  "he  would  not  take  a  slice  of  cold 
meat  upon  a  hot  plate?" 

As  "Juba,"  Mr.  Randolph's  body-servant,  was  at  the 
guest's  elbow  with  the  hot  plate,  the  gentleman  thought  he 
was  expected  to  say  "  Yes,"  and  fearing  to  anger  the  choleric 
host,  took  the  plate,  accepting  the  offered  cold  meat. 
Whereupon,  Randolph  swore  savagely  at  him  for  a  "lick- 
spittle," and  a  "coward." 

"You  dare  not  speak  up  to  me  like  a  man!"  he  snarled. 
"I  asked  the  question  to  see  what  you  would  say." 

He  was  as  brutal  to  members  of  his  own  family.  A 
clergyman,  who  studied  divinity  under  Doctor  Rice  in  Rich- 
mond, told  me  of  a  conversation  between  John  Randolph 
and  his  sister-in-law,  the  widow  of  Richard  Randolph.  She 
was  very  fond  of  the  Rices,  spending  weeks  together  at 
their  home,  and  at  last,  dying  while  on  one  of  these  visits. 
Some  months  prior  to  her  death,  she  joined  the  Presby- 
terian Church,  and  shortly  after  taking  this  step,  had  a  call 
from  her  terrible  brother-in-law.  Regardless  of  the  fact 
that  two  of  the  students  were  in  the  next  room,  and  that 
what  he  shrieked  in  his  piercing  falsetto  must  be  heard 
from  the  top  of  the  house  to  the  bottom,  the  irate  Con- 
gressman berated  Mrs.  Judith  Randolph  in  the  coarsest 
terms  for  the  disgrace  she  had  brought  upon  an  honorable 
name  in  uniting  with  "the  Dissenters." 

He  stayed  not  for  any  law,  written  or  tacit,  of  respect  due 
to  host  or  hostess,  reviling  both  as  scheming  hypocrites 
and  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing,  who  had  decoyed  her  into 
their  "conventicle"  in  the  hope  of  securing  her  fortune 
for  themselves. 

319 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Yet,  there  is  extant  a  letter  which  I  have  read,  from 
John  Randolph  to  Doctor  Rice,  written  after  his  sister- 
in-law's  death,  extolling  her  piety,  thanking  her  late  host 
for  his  great  goodness  to  the  sainted  deceased,  and  winding 
up  by  saying  that  he  had,  all  day,  been  possessed  by  the 
idea  that  he  could  see  her  spirit,  "mild,  loving,  and  be- 
nignant, hovering  above  him!" 

We  must  fall  back  upon  Mrs.  Eggleston's  dictum — 
"Queer,  through  and  through,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
and  like  no  other  man  that  ever  lived!" 

Before  quitting  my  gossip  of  the  Randolphs,  I  must 
touch  upon  one  of  the  most  pitiful  of  the  many  tragedies 
that  darken  the  history  of  the  aristocratic  clan. 

The  Sunday  after  my  arrival  in  my  new  home,  I  saw, 
from  my  seat  in  church,  a  late-comer  stride  up  the  aisle 
to  one  of  the  pews  running  at  right  angles  with  those  filling 
the  body  of  the  building.  The  tardy  worshipper  was  a  man 
above  the  medium  height,  and  erect  as  a  Virginia  pine. 
He  walked  like  an  Indian,  as  I  observed  at  once,  planting 
his  feet  straight  forward,  and  rising  on  his  toes  with  a  lop- 
ing motion.  His  hair  was  snowy  white,  and  hung  down 
to  the  collar  of  his  coat.  When  he  took  his  seat,  and 
faced  the  congregation,  one  saw  that  his  eyes  were  dark 
and  piercing;  his  eyebrows  black;  his  features  finely  chis- 
elled. A  full  white  beard  added  to  his  venerable  appearance 
and  accentuated  the  quaintness  of  the  figure  in  a  com- 
munity where  shaven  chins  and  upper  lips  were  the  rule. 

I  had  hardly  noted  these  peculiarities  when  he  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  hands,  resting  his  elbows  upon  his  knees, 
evidently  in  silent  devotion,  and  remained  thus  for  several 
minutes.  The  choir  was  singing  the  introductory  anthem 
when  he  sat  upright,  and  perceived  the  occupant  of  the 
pulpit.  A  brilliant  smile  irradiated  the  grave  features; 
to  my  amazement  he  arose,  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  sacred 
desk,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  preacher,  the  other  hand 

320 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    RANDOLPHS 

upon  his  heart,  and  bowed  deferentially.  Mr.  Terhune 
arose,  with  no  sign  of  surprise  or  annoyance,  and  bowed 
silently  over  the  locked  hands.  As  nimbly  as  he  had 
mounted  the  steps,  the  eccentric  individual  ran  down  and 
resumed  his  seat.  Neither  man  had  unclosed  his  lips,  but 
the  pantomime  of  welcome  and  acknowledgment  was  so 
significant  that  words  would  have  been  superfluous.  The 
Unknown  appeared  to  hearken  devoutly  to  reading  and 
to  sermon,  accompanying  his  listening  by  actions  foreign 
to  the  behavior  of  latter-day  church-goers.  They  were 
singularly  expressive  to  me,  whose  eyes  wandered  to  him 
covertly  every  few  minutes.  Nobody  else  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  him.  Now,  his  joined  hands  were  raised  almost  to 
his  chin,  and  the  bowed  head  shaken  over  them,  as  in  deep 
contrition — an  attitude  that  recalled  the  "publican  stand- 
ing afar  off."  Once  he  beat  softly  upon  his  breast.  Again, 
he  nodded  approval  of  what  he  heard.  Often  he  closed  his 
eyes,  and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer.  He  was  the  foremost 
of  the  retiring  congregation  to  leave  the  church  after  the 
benediction,  passing  down  the  aisle  with  the  free,  sweeping 
lope  that  had  reminded  me  of  an  Indian. 

I  had  the  story  over  our  early  Sunday  dinner.  When 
Mr.  Henry  finished  it,  I  recalled  that  I  had  heard,  when 
a  mere  child,  my  mother  speak  of  meeting  at  Doctor  Rice's, 
in  her  early  girlhood,  a  nephew  of  John  Randolph — St. 
George  Randolph  by  name — who  was  deaf  and  dumb. 

"One  of  the  handsomest  young  men  I  ever  saw,"  she 
subjoined,  "with  flashing  black  eyes  and  dark,  beautiful 
curls.  He  frightened  me  by  offering  to  teach  me  the  finger 
alphabet;  but  his  manners  were  very  pleasant,  and  he 
seemed  gay,  in  spite  of  his  affliction.  He  was  educated  in 
France,  and  had  just  come  home  when  I  saw  him." 

Obedient  memory,  following  this  clue,  unearthed  a  pass- 
age in  Garnett's  Life  of  John  Randolph,  which  was  part  of 
my  biographical  library.     In  a  letter  to  an  old  friend  the 

321 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

uncle  lamented  that  his  nephew  St.  George  had  become 
insane.  He  had  made  several  efforts  to  marry,  and  was 
unsuccessful — as  he  was  given  to  understand— on  account 
of  his  infirmity. 

Mr.  Henry's  narrative  brought  the  biography  down 
to  date.  The  unhappy  youth — sole  heir  to  his  father's 
and  his  uncle's  wealth  after  the  death  of  his  younger 
brother,  Tudor — was  committed  to  an  asylum  for  the 
insane.  How  long  this  man — born  in  the  purple,  highly 
educated,  refined  in  taste,  and  elegant  in  bearing — was 
allowed  to  linger  in  the  filthy  inferno  of  the  old-time  "  mad- 
house," I  would  not  recollect  if  I  could.  Then  the  creak- 
ing wheel  of  his  fortunes  took  an  unexpected  turn.  By 
some  legal  manipulation  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand, 
Mr.  Wyatt  Cardwell,  of  Charlotte,  the  father  of  our  grooms- 
man and  travelling  companion  in  the  first  stage  of  our 
wedding-journey,  became  the  guardian  of  the  almost  for- 
gotten lunatic.  A  visit  to  his  afflicted  charge  wrought  so 
powerfully  upon  Mr.  Cardwell's  sympathies,  that  he  left 
no  stone  unturned  until  the  last  of  the  direct  line  of  Ran- 
dolphs was  a  free  man,  and  domesticated  in  the  home  of 
his  guardian.  The  remnants  of  his  once  fine  library  were 
placed  at  his  disposal;  he  had  his  own  riding-horse,  and 
other  luxuries— in  short,  all  that  he  was  able  to  enjoy. 
The  Charlotte  people  respected  his  misfortunes,  and  treated 
him  kindly  whenever  occasion  offered.  He  read,  and  ap- 
parently enjoyed  books,  reading  French,  Latin,  and  Eng- 
lish at  pleasure.  His  reminiscences  of  his  distinguished 
uncle,  and  the  politics  of  his  unquiet  day,  were  distinct, 
and  to  those  who  communicated  with  him  by  signs  or  by 
writing,  extremely  entertaining. 

His  fellow-citizens  came  to  have  a  pride  in  the  relic  of 
the  heroic  age.  His  shrewd  comments  upon  men  he  had 
known  in  his  prime,  and  the  acquaintances  of  to-day,  were 
repeated  as  bon  mots. 

322 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    RANDOLPHS 

Sane,  he  would  never  be.  The  splendid  intellect,  that 
should  have  surmounted  the  frightful  disability  imposed 
at  birth,  was  hopelessly  shattered.  But  he  was  a  local 
celebrity,  about  whom  clung  a  glamour  of  romantic  im- 
portance. 

I  entered  fully  into  this  feeling  within  three  weeks  after 
I  had  my  earliest  glimpse  of  him. 

The  Rev.  Mr. ,  from  another  county,  who  had  filled 

the  pulpit  of  the  Village  Church  more  frequently  in  past 
years  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  the  congregation,  chanced 
to  spend  the  Sunday  in  the  neighborhood,  and  was  invited 
to  preach.  He  arose  to  announce  the  opening  hymn  just 
as  St.  George  Randolph  lifted  his  head  from  his  private 
devotions.  The  expression  of  ineffable  disgust,  when  he 
discovered  who  was  to  officiate  that  forenoon,  was  un- 
mistakable and  indescribable.  Then  he  deliberately  went 
through  the  pantomime  of  sharpening  a  pencil,  a  forefinger 
doing  duty  as  the  pencil,  three  fingers  of  the  right  hand 
holding  an  imaginary  pen-knife.  The  sharpening  done, 
he  blew  the  imaginary  refuse  into  the  air  with  a  disdainful 
puff.  We  all  witnessed  the  operation,  and  the  dullest 
could  not  miss  the  meaning.  More  than  one  was  unable 
to  join  in  the  song  of  praise  selected  by  the  only  man  who 
was  unconscious  of  the  by-play.  In  the  forty-five  years 
of  his  active  pastorate,  my  husband  but  twice  violated 
pulpit  and  pew  proprieties  so  far  as  to  exchange  meaning 
and  amused  glances  with  me.  That  was  one  of  the  times. 
As  for  Wirt  Henry,  nothing  but  an  agonized  ray  from  his 
wife's  eye  kept  him  from  disgracing  himself. 

Having  testified  to  the  nature  and  sincerity  of  his  senti- 
ments with  respect  to  the  obnoxious  interloper,  as  he 
considered  him,  our  local  wit  turned  a  cold  shoulder  tow- 
ard the  pulpit  and  buried  himself  in  the  pages  of  a  small, 
much-worn  volume  he  drew  from  his  pocket,  never  vouch- 
safing another  glance  at  desk  or  occupant  during  the  service. 

22  323 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  little  book  was  a  collection  of  devotional  readings 
he  carried  with  him  everywhere.  His  mother  had  given 
it  to  him  when  he  went  abroad.  From  her,  too,  he  had 
learned  to  kneel  by  his  bed  each  night  and  pray,  as  he 
had  done  at  her  knee  in  infancy.  He  never  remitted  the 
habit.  I  used  to  wonder,  with  a  hard  heartache,  if  he  kept 
it  up  during  that  dark,  dreadful  age  in  the  asylum. 

Less  than  three  years  after  my  first  sight  of  him,  the 
deaf,  dumb  and  lunatic  heir  of  the  vast  Randolph  estate 
joined  the  mother  he  had  not  forgotten,  nor  ceased  to  love 
and  venerate  in  the  long  night  that  had  no  star  of  hope, 
and  which  was  to  know  no  dawning  this  side  of  heaven. 


XXXIII 

PLANTATION    PREACHING — COLORED   COMMUNICANTS — 
A   "MIGHTY   MAN   IN   prayer" 

In  the  group  of  midland  counties  that  embraced  Char- 
lotte, Prince  Edward  and  Halifax — names  that  fell  into 
line,  as  by  natural  gravitation,  in  the  thought  and  speech  of 
the  "Old  Virginian" — the  Presbyterian  was  the  leading 
denomination.  Rice,  Lacy,  Hoge,  Alexander,  and  Speece 
had  left  their  mark  upon  preceding  generations,  and  a 
fragrant  memory — as  of  mountains  of  myrrh  and  hills 
of  frankincense — through  all  the  Southern  Church. 

Five  out  of  seven  of  the  leading  planters  in  the  region 
were  Presbyterians.  The  others  were,  almost  without  ex- 
ception, Episcopalians,  and  the  two  denominations  affili- 
ated more  cordially  than  with  Baptists,  Methodists,  and  the 
sparse  sprinkling  of  Campbellites,  or  "Christians,"  as  they 
preferred  to  call  their  sect. 

Slavery  existed  in  Virginia  in  its  mildest  possible  form, 
and  nowhere  was  the  master's  rule  more  paternal  than  in 
the  group  of  counties  I  have  named.  The  negroes  were 
permitted  to  hold  their  own  prayer-meetings  in  their  cabins 
whenever  it  pleased  them;  they  attended  religious  services 
as  regularly  as  their  owners,  and,  in  a  majority  of  the  old 
families,  were  called  in  to  family  worship  with  the  children 
of  the  household.  No  more  convincing  proof  of  their 
religious  freedom  could  be  desired  than  the  fact  that  the 
bulk  of  the  colored  population  belonged  to  the  Baptist 
Church.    Why,  I  could  never  make  out.    The  Methodists 

325 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

would  seem  likely  to  attract  them  with  equal  force,  their 
methods  appealing  to  the  emotional,  excitable  natures  of 
the  semi-tropical  race  as  strongly  as  those  of  the  denomina- 
tion that  found  favor  in  their  sight.  Yet,  when  one  of  our 
servants  "got  through"  the  spiritual  conflicts  that  ushered 
in  a  state  of  grace,  we  expected  him,  or  her,  to  join  the 
Baptist  Church  as  confidently  as  we  looked  for  the  child 
of  the  Covenant,  "ordered  in  all  things  and  sure,"  to  con- 
firm, when  it  arrived  at  "the  age  of  discretion,"  the  vows 
taken  by  parents  and  sponsors  in  baptism. 

It  was  not  singular,  therefore,  that  the  new  pastor  of  the 
Village  Church  at  Charlotte  Court-House  should  find,  at 
his  installation  in  his  cure  of  souls,  the  name  of  but  one 
colored  person  upon  the  roll  of  communicants.  We  never 
spoke  of  them  as  "negroes"  in  that  benighted  age. 

"Uncle  Caesar,"  the  trusted  "headman"  upon  the  plan- 
tation of  Colonel  Marshall — Mrs.  Henry's  father — had  once 
partaken  of  the  Lord's-  Supper  in  the  church  in  which  his 
master  was  an  elder.  Which  violation  of  the  laws  of  his 
denomination,  being  duly  reported,  was  the  occasion  of 
a  case  of  discipline  long  talked  of  throughout  the  colored 
community.  The  recusant  was  sharply  reprimanded,  and 
notified  that  a  second  offence  would  be  punished  by  ex- 
communication. The  doughty  old  servitor  thereupon  de- 
clared that,  as  he  hoped  to  sit  down  to  the  supper  of  the 
Lamb  in  heaven  with  his  master,  so  he  would  continue 
to  do  on  earth,  when  the  Lord's  table  was  spread  in  the 
Village  Church.  An  example  was  made  of  him  for  the 
edification  of  others,  and  Csesar  became  a  Presbyterian, 
taking  his  seat  among  the  communicants  gathered  in  the 
main  body  of  the  church,  whenever  a  Communion  season 
came  around. 

With  a  broad  catholicity  of  spirit  that  appears,  in  per- 
spective, incompatible  with  the  narrowness  of  creeds  and 
ordinances  prevalent,  even  among  the  educated  Christians 

326 


PLANTATION    PREACHING 

of  that  time,  the  "plantation  preachings"  held  regularly 
during  the  summer  at  various  homesteads  in  those  parts 
of  the  county  near  the  churches,  were  attended  by  the 
colored  population  in  large  numbers,  irrespective  of  the 
sect  to  which  the  officiating  minister  might  belong.  It  was 
an  established  custom  in  the  Village  Church  that  the  second 
Sunday  service  should  be,  in  summer,  at  the  house  of  some 
neighboring  planter,  and  held  for  the  colored  people,  in 
particular.  That  the  whites,  within  a  radius  of  five  or  six 
miles,  drove  over  for  the  afternoon  service,  did  not  alter 
the  expressed  purpose  of  the  meeting,  or  the  manner  of 
conducting  it. 

Autumn  was  tardy  in  approach  that  year,  and  so  it  fell 
out  that  notice  was  given  on  the  second  Sunday  morning 
after  my  arrival  at  my  new  abode,  of  "a  plantation  preach- 
ing to  be  held,  at  three  o'clock,  at  the  residence  of  Mr. 
Richard  I.  Gaines,  to  which  all  are  cordially  invited." 

We  had  an  early  dinner  in  consequence  of  the  service. 
Over  the  dessert — the  servants  having  been  excused,  that 
they  might  get  ready  for  the  "preaching" — we  talked 
more  freely  of  their  ideas  and  mode  of  worship,  than  would 
have  been  kind  in  their  presence.  Among  other  anecdotes 
I  related  one  I  had  had  from  Ned  Rhodes  last  summer, 
when  he  had,  as  he  reported,  been  "  blackburying  "  on  Sun- 
day afternoon. 

The  cemetery  of  the  colored  people  was  then,  as  now, 
situated  upon  high,  rising  ground,  overlooking  the  ravine 
separating  Shockoe  Hill  from  the  adjacent  country.  Mr. 
Rhodes  and  a  friend,  in  the  course  of  a  Sunday  afternoon 
walk,  were  drawn  to  the  spot  by  the  sight  of  a  great  crowd 
of  negroes  and  a  string  of  mourning  coaches. 

When  the  two  young  men  were  near  enough  to  the 
concourse  to  hear  what  was  going  on,  they  were  espied  by 
the  orator  of  the  day,  who  instantly  soared  into  what  his 
ilk  admired  as  "dictionary  English."     Upon  the  heap  of 

327 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

red  clay  beside  the  grave  was  a  tiny  coffin.  The  new- 
comers agreed,  in  telling  the  story,  that  they  had  never 
beheld  a  smaller,  and  that  the  size  of  the  pitiful  little 
casket,  wrapped  with  flowers,  by  contrast  with  the  number 
of  attendants  upon  the  pompous  service,  set  the  stamp 
of  absurdity  upon  the  whole  performance  before  they 
caught  what  the  man  was  saying. 

That  this  was  in  keeping  with  the  rest,  they  speedily 
perceived.  In  hortatory  tones  that  thundered  to  the  re- 
motest auditor,  he  dilated  upon  the  uncertainty  of  life : 

".  .  .  Even  de  distinguished  lives  of  de  two  'lustr'ous 
strangers  what  has  honored  us  by  comin'  among  us  dis 
blessed  arternoon,  to  jine  in  our  mo'nin'.  What  is  they? 
And  what  is  we?  And  what  is  any  man,  bo'n  o'  woman,  my 
brethren?  Up  ter-day  wid  de  hoppergrass,  and  down  ter- 
morrow  wid  de  sparrergrass !  Like  de  flower  ob  de  corn- 
Ac?,  so  he  spreads  hisself,  like  a  tree  planted  by  de  horse- 
branch.  Den  de  win'  rises  and  de  tempes'  blows,  an'  beats 
upon  dat  man — and  whar  is  he?  An'  he  shan'  know  dat 
place  o'  his'n,  no  mo'." 

Pausing  in  mid-career,  he  touched  the  pathetically  ridicu- 
lous box  with  a  disdainful  foot. 

"As  fur  dis  tfing!"  rising  on  his  toes  in  the  energy  of 
his  contempt — "as  fur  dis  'ere  Hum — put  de  t'ing  in  de 
groun'!    It's  too  small  fer  to  be  argyin'  over!" 

Mr.  Henry  followed  with  a  story  of  a  darky,  who  prayed 
that  "we  might  grow  up  befo'  de  Lord,  like  calves  and 
beeves  of  de  stall,  and  be  made  meat  for  de  kingdom  o' 
heaven." 

Mrs.  Henry  had  a  tale  of  a  man  who  prayed  at  a  plan- 
tation-meeting at  Woodfork — Dr.  Joel  Watkins's  home- 
stead —  that  Rev.  John  Rice,  Mr.  Terhune's  immediate 
predecessor  and  a  nephew  of  "Aunt  Rice's"  husband — 
"might  soon  cease  from  his  labors,  and  his  works,  may 
dey  f oiler  him!" 

328 


A    "MIGHTY    MAN    IN    PRAYER" 

"After  which  performance,"  she  continued,  "my  uncle — 
his  master — had  a  private  interview  with  him,  and  forbade 
him  ever  to  pray  in  public  again." 

Then  I  heard  that,  within  the  two  years'  incum- 
bency of  the  present  pastor,  ten  colored  members  had  been 
added  to  the  Village  Church,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of 
their  owners.  Among  them,  one  Dabney  and  his  brother 
Chesley,  or  Chelsea  (I  am  not  sure  which),  were  prominent 
in  all  good  words  and  works.  Both  could  read  and  write, 
and  both  were  skilled  carpenters,  who  had  hired  their  time 
from  their  master,  and  were  working  at  their  trade  for  them- 
selves— respectable  citizens  in  all  but  the  right  of  franchise. 
The  pastor  spoke  seriously  and  gratefully  of  their  influence 
for  good  among  their  fellows,  and  of  his  hopes  for  the 
class  they  represented. 

"Dabney  is  especially  gifted  in  prayer,"  commented 
Mr.  Henry,  gravely. 

I  did  not  then  comprehend  why  his  eyes  twinkled,  and 
why  the  others  laughed.  I  was  to  know  before  the  day 
was  done. 

The  Gaines  homestead  was  a  fine  old  brick  building, 
fronted  by  a  broad  veranda  (we  said  "porch"  then,  in  true 
English  fashion).  A  spacious  lawn  stretched  between  the 
house  and  the  gate.  Under  the  trees  shading  the  turf  were 
ranged  long  rows  of  benches,  occupied,  that  Sunday  after- 
noon, by  men  and  women  from  the  Gaines  plantation 
and  from  other  freeholdings  for  miles  around.  There  may 
have  been  four  hundred,  all  told.  A  healthier,  happier  peas- 
ant class  could  not  be  found  on  either  side  of  the  ocean. 
All  were  clean ;  all  were  well-dressed.  The  younger  women 
were  gay  with  the  discarded  finery  which  was  the  per- 
quisite of  house-servants,  ladies'  maids  in  particular. 

The  porch  and  the  windows  of  the  drawing-room  were 
filled  with  guests  of  fairer  complexion,  but  in  demeanor  and 
general  behavior  not  a  whit  more  quietly  reverent.    The 

329 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

brief  invocation,  the  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  and  the 
sermon  were  the  duty  of  the  presiding  clergyman.  He 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  short  flight  of  steps,  facing  the 
dusky  throng,  and  paying  no  more  heed  to  the  small 
audience  behind  him  than  if  it  had  not  been.  It  was  the 
"colored  people's"  service.  In  the  selection  of  hymns  the 
leader  was  guided  by  his  knowledge  of  what  would  be 
familiar  to  them.  The  first  went  with  a  swing  and  a  rush, 
that  shook  the  branches  above  the  singers'  heads,  and 
brought  down  slow  showers  of  tinted  leaves  upon  the 
grass. 

It  was  a  perfect  afternoon.  The  fields  were  golden  brown ; 
no  frost  had  fallen  to  blacken  or  bleach  them.  Hickories 
were  canopies  of  warm  amber;  oaks  were  reddening,  and 
the  maples  were  aglow  with  autumnal  fires.  The  still  air 
was  nutty  sweet. 

The  prayer,  immediately  preceding  the  sermon,  was  of- 
fered by  an  aged  farm-hand,  upon  whom  the  leader  called 
to  conduct  our  devotions.  His  hair  was  pale  chinchilla; 
his  back  was  bent,  and  his  thin  voice  quavered  sadly.  All 
the  same,  he  voiced  the  petitions  of  every  heart  for  strength, 
wisdom,  and  righteousness,  briefly  and  pertinently.  The 
sermon  over,  Dabney  was  bidden  to  "lead  us  in  prayer." 

I  was  more  than  curious  to  hear  the  "gifted"  brother. 
I  had,  on  the  drive  out  from  the  village,  illustrations  of  his 
practice  of  introducing  pointed  personalities  into  extem- 
pore blending  of  supplication,  confession,  and  adoration. 
How,  the  year  before,  when  the  smallpox  appeared  in  the 
lower  end  of  the  village,  Doctor  Flournoy,  a  leading  physi- 
cian in  the  county,  undertook  the  charge  of  the  few  cases  of 
the  dreaded  disease,  quarantining  himself  from  the  homes 
of  other  patients  and  acquaintances.  In  the  cold  weather, 
the  second  service  of  the  Sabbath  was  still  for  the  negroes. 
But  they  occupied  the  lower  part  of  the  church,  and  the 
whites  sat  in  the  gallery,  reversing  the  order  of  the  morning 

330 


A    "MIGHTY    MAN    IN    PRAYER" 

services.  There  were  few  in  the  gallery  when  Doctor  Flour- 
noy,  peeping  in  at  the  door,  thought  it  safe  to  slip  into  a 
seat  in  the  choir-loft,  which  was  quite  empty. 

Dabney's  falcon  eye  had  descried  him,  and  when  he 
arose  to  pray  he  "improved"  the  incident: 

"0  Lord!  we  beseech  Thee  to  bless  and  take  care  of 
the  good  doctor  who  has  crope  into  the  gallery  up  yonder, 
'cause  why,  he's  afeerd  he  may  carry  smallpox  in  his  clo'es 
to  some  of  us.  Be  a  shield  about  that  good  man  whose 
heart  so  faints  for  the  courts  of  the  Lord  that  he  jes'  can't 
keep  away.  See  to  it,  0  Shepherd  of  Thine  Isrul !  that  he 
don't  ketch  the  smallpox  himself!" 

With  all  this,  I  was  so  far  unprepared  for  what  was  to 
follow  the  uprising  of  the  tall  figure  from  the  ranks  of  the 
believers,  collected  in  the  heart  of  the  congregation,  that  I 
shrank  back,  out  of  sight  of  those  who  might  have  their 
eyes  open  and  focussed  upon  me,  in  my  seat  just  within 
a  front  window. 

For  thus  held  forth  the  man  mighty  in  prayer,  when  he 
had  disposed  comfortably  of  the  world  at  large  and  the 
brotherhood  of  saints  in  especial: 

"0  Lord!  have  mercy  upon  the  hardened  and  hell- 
defying,  hell-desarvin'  sinners,  in  these  'ere  low-groun's  of 
sin  an'  sorrow,  'roun'  about  Charlotte  Coate-House,  from 
the  rivers  to  the  ends  of  the  yearth. 

"Bring  'em  to  mou'n  as  one  mou'ns  fer  his  first-born, 
and  come  a  flockin'  into  the  kingdom,  as  doves  to  their 
windows,  from  the  rivers  to  the  ends  of  the  yearth. 

"Bless  the  master  an'  mistis  of  this  home,  an'  pour  out 
on  'em  the  riches  of  the  heavens  above,  and  the  earth  be- 
neath, and  the  waters  under  the  earth,  from  the  rivers  to 
the  ends  of  the  yearth. 

"O  Lord!  in  the  plentifulness  of  Thy  mercy,  bless  with 
all  manner  of  mercies  the  great  and  notable  man  of  God, 
whom  Thou  hast  placed  over  us  in  speritual  things.     Bless 

331 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

him  in  his  rising  up,  and  goin'  about,  and  among  the 
sheep  of  his  parstur',  from  the  rivers  to  the  ends  of  the 
yearth. 

"Bless  her  who  Thou  hast  given  to  him  to  be  a  pardner 
in  the  Ian'  what  flows  wid  milk  an'  honey,  an'  in  de  was' 
and  desolate  po'tions,  whar  no  water  is,  from  the  rivers  to 
the  ends  of  the  yearth. 

"May  they  two  live  together  for  many  a  long  year,  like 
two  turtle-doves  in  one  nes',  with  nary  a  jar  between,  from 
the  rivers  to  the  ends  of  the  yearth!" 

"A  powerful  figure — that  of  the  family  jars!"  said  my 
companion,  when  we  had  had  our  confidential  laugh  out, 
driving  homeward  between  the  hedgerows  of  the  planta- 
tion-road and  the  cool  depths  of  forest-lands.  "And  the 
only  one  he  did  not  borrow  from  the  Bible.  He  knows 
but  one  book." 


XXXIV 

MY  NOVITIATE  AS  A  PRACTICAL  HOUSEWIFE — MY  COOK 
"GETS  HER  HAND  OUT" — INCEPTION  OF  "COMMON  SENSE 
IN  THE  HOUSEHOLD" 

Fifty  years  after  it  was  written,  I  found  among  some 
family  papers  a  letter  from  my  husband  to  his  father, 
dated  "February  20,  1857."  His  description  of  the  cot- 
tage home  in  which  we  were  now  installed,  as  master  and 
mistress,  reads  like  a  pastoral.  He  was  not  addicted  to 
sentimental  rhapsodies.  If  this  were  ever  his  style,  he 
would  have  curbed  the  disposition  to  effervesce,  in  writing 
to  another  man.  But  the  tone  of  the  whole  epistle  is  that 
of  one  thoroughly  content  with  his  home  and  the  manage- 
ment thereof. 

One  sentence  brought  deep  gratification  to  me,  blended 
oddly  with  amusement  and  a  tinge  of  melancholy: 

"Virginia  is  very  well  and  very  busy.  I  confess  to  some 
surprise  at  her  skill  in  housewifery.  She  seems  as  much  at 
home  in  the  kitchen  as  in  the  drawing-room,  to  which  she  is 
summoned  many  times  a  day  to  receive  visitors." 

Until  I  read  that  letter,  I  had  not  meant  to  devote  so 
much  as  a  page — much  less  a  chapter— to  the  crucial  ex- 
periences of  that  novitiate  in  domestic  lore.  Now,  I  feel 
it  incumbent  upon  me,  as  a  duty  I  owe  to  the  country- 
women I  have  tried  to  help  along  these  lines,  for  forty-odd 
years,  to  lift  the  veil  from  the  homely,  ill-appointed  kitchen 
in  which  I  successfully  deluded  a  quick-eyed,  quick-witted 
man  into  believing  I  was  mistress  of  the  situation. 

333 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

In  my  father's  house  I  was  considered  to  have  a  turn, 
if  not  a  talent,  for  housewifery.  From  childhood  it  was 
my  delight  to  haunt  the  laundry,  where  the  finer  branches 
of  cookery  were  carried  on  when  the  washing  was  out  of 
the  way.  My  mother  was  a  very  Mrs.  Rundle  in  the  ex- 
cellence of  her  preserves  and  pickles.  Mary  Anne,  -the 
comely  Indo-mulatto,  was  proficient  in  the  composition  of 
cakes,  jellies,  and  pastries,  syllabubs  and  creams.  She 
liked  to  have  me  "help"  her,  as  she  put  it.  That  is,  I 
whipped  eggs  and  beat  butter  and  pounded  spices,  peeled 
fruit,  topped  and  tailed  gooseberries,  when  I  felt  like  it, 
and  kept  her  amused  with  my  chatter. 

At  ten,  I  was  trusted  to  carry  the  key-basket  and  to 
"give  out"  ingredients  required  for  the  day's  cooking  and 
serving.  At  fourteen,  I  believed  myself  to  be  a  clever 
cake-maker,  and  at  sixteen,  proudly  assumed  the  respon- 
sibility of  putting  up  preserves  and  pickles  for  the  winter's 
consumption,  one  summer,  when  my  mother's  health  obliged 
her  to  leave  town  in  the  height  of  the  fruit  season.  When 
she  came  home,  the  stern  old  granddame,  with  whom  I 
was  rather  a  favorite  (if  she  ever  indulged  her  buckram- 
clad  spirit  in  the  weakness  of  having  a  favorite),  informed 
her  gentle  daughter-in-law  that  "Mary" — as  she  persisted 
in  calling  me — "had  kept  the  house  so  well  that  we  had 
hardly  missed  her  mother." 

It  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  I  took  the  helm  of 
my  newly  launched  barque  with  faint  and  few  misgivings 
as  to  my  ability  to  navigate  the  unknown  seas  that  looked 
calm  and  bright  from  the  shore. 

Ours  was  a  prosperous  country  parish,  and  liberal  hos- 
pitality was  the  law  of  daily  living.  The  Henrys  vacated 
the  Parsonage  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  and  1  went 
down  to  Richmond  for  a  fortnight,  to  complete  the  house- 
hold plenishing  we  had  begun  during  the  honeymoon.  My 
sisters-in-law — with  whom  I  was  ever  upon  cordial  terms — 

334 


MY    NOVITIATE    AS    A    HOUSEWIFE 

had  lent  advice  and  co-operation  in  the  selection  of  furni- 
ture at  the  North.  My  carpets  were  bought  in  New  Bruns- 
wick, New  Jersey,  where  Judge  Terhune  was  an  old  and 
honored  resident.  My  mother  had  seen  to  the  outfit  of 
household  linen.  I  smile  now,  in  recollecting  how  care- 
free was  my  mood  through  that  happy  Christmas  fortnight, 
after  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  the  member  of  the  firm 
who  abode  by  the  stuff  for  ten  days  of  my  holiday,  ap- 
prised me  of  the  arrival  of  the  furniture  from  New  Bruns- 
wick and  from  Richmond,  likewise,  that  "Mrs.  Eggleston 
and  Mrs.  Henry,  with  some  other  ladies,  kindly  insist  upon 
having  the  house  cleaned,  the  carpets  made  and  put  down, 
and  the  furniture  settled  in  place  while  you  are  away." 

The  proceedings  would  astound  me  now  that  I  know 
more  of  humankind,  and  of  parishes.  Still  more  extraor- 
dinary would  I  consider  the  cool,  matter-of-course  way  in 
which  I  received  the  intelligence.  It  was  the  Old  Virginia 
atmosphere  in  that  long-dead-and-buried  time. 

I  did  open  my  eyes,  and  break  into  ecstatic  gratitude, 
when,  on  taking  formal  possession  of  our  real  home,  where 
we  had  expected  to  live  in  picnic  fashion  upon  the  pro- 
visions we  had  laid  away  in  baskets  and  trunks  before 
leaving  Richmond,  we  beheld  the  table  set  in  the  dining- 
room  for  supper,  and  fires  alight  in  every  room.  Further 
search  revealed  that  the  house  was  in  perfect  order,  the 
curtains  hung,  carpets  down,  and  the  larder  stocked  to 
overflowing  with  staples  and  delicacies.  The  cook  and 
chambermaid  hired  for  the  year — as  was  the  invariable 
custom  of  the  "system" — were  on  hand,  and  John,  the 
man-of-all-work,  had  met  us  at  the  station.  Not  another 
human  creature  was  visible.  For  any  evidence  furnished 
to  the  contrary,  by  sight  or  hearing,  the  "surprise"  might 
have  been  the  work  of  benevolent  pixies.  My  sister  Alice 
— a  girl  of  fourteen — would  be  an  inmate  of  our  house  for 
most  of  the  time,  and  study  with  us  as  heretofore.     She 

335 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  I  ran  about  the  house  like  two  madcaps,,  after  supper  and 
until  bedtime,  calling  out  excitedly  at  each  fresh  discovery. 

Two  barrels  of  flour  and  one  of  corn-meal;  two  of  apples 
and  one  of  potatoes ;  a  half -barrel  of  sugar,  and  other  staple 
groceries,  in  divers  measures,  made  the  foundation  of  the 
abundant  supply  for  creature  wants.  The  upper  shelves 
of  the  store-room  were  crowded  with  pickles,  preserves, 
and  all  manner  of  conserved  fruits  for  which  the  Virginia 
housewife  was  justly  famed.  Truly,  the  lines  had  fallen 
to  us  in  pleasant  places. 

Excitement  was  renewed  next  morning  by  the  appear- 
ance at  the  outer  gate,  and  streaming  down  the  walk,  of  a 
procession  of  colored  men  and  women,  each  laden  with 
basket,  or  pail,  or  tray,  or  parcel.  The  women  bore  their 
burdens  on  their  heads,  the  men  upon  shoulders  or  in  their 
arms.  All,  like  the  Greeks  of  old,  came  bearing  gifts,  and 
of  a  more  perishable  nature  than  those  that  loaded  pantry 
and  store-room  shelves.  Honey,  breads  of  all  shapes  and 
characters;  cakes,  butter,  and  eggs;  chickens,  dressed  for 
the  table;  sausage,  spareribs,  hams,  and  shoulders;  a  roast 
of  beef;  custards  and  puddings  and  mince-pies — seemed 
designed  to  victual  a  garrison  rather  than  a  family  of 
three  whites  and  three  servants.  To  crown  the  pro- 
fusion and  add  to  the  variety,  the  elegant  young  lawyer, 
Mr.  Cardwell,  who  had  figured  in  our  bridal  train,  drove  up 
through  the  main  street,  in  at  our  front  gate,  and  down 
to  the  Parsonage  door,  a  cow  and  calf,  to  the  unbounded 
delight  of  the  village  urchins  who  flocked  at  his  heels  up 
to  the  gate.  The  cow,  "Old  Blue,"  as  she  was  dubbed, 
because  her  color  could  not  be  more  accurately  described, 
gave  the  richest  milk  I  ever  skimmed.  I  would  let  no  one 
else  take  care  of  it  after  one  week's  experience  had  taught 
me  the  necessity  of  giving  my  personal  attention  to  each 
department  of  housewifery,  if  I  would  not  be  cheated  at 
every  conceivable  opportunity. 

336 


MY    NOVITIATE    AS    A    HOUSEWIFE 

Thus  gayly  began  my  training  in  a  school  from  which 
I  have  not  yet  been  graduated. 

My  mother  was  a  good  housekeeper,  and  the  wheels  of 
her  machine  ran  in  smooth  ruts.  She  had  old  and  com- 
petent servants.  I  doubt  if  she  had  ever  swept  a  room, 
or  roasted  a  piece  of  meat,  in  her  life.  The  cook  we  had 
hired  from  a  neighboring  planter  had  excellent  recom- 
mendations. True,  she  had  been  one  of  the  superfluous 
" hands"  who  were  hired  out  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
and  such  were  not  warranted  as  first-class  workers.  They 
were  prone  to  become  shiftless  and  indifferent  to  their 
work,  by  reason  of  frequent  changes.  Still,  Emily  was  re- 
puted to  be  a  fair  cook  and  laundress.  Among  the  cuts  of 
fresh  meat  sent  in  by  the  friends,  whose  consistent  gen- 
erosity moved  me  to  the  invention  of  the  phrase  "kitchenly- 
kindness,"  was  a  noble  beefsteak.  I  ordered  it  to  be 
cooked  for  breakfast  the  second  day  of  our  incumbency. 

Emily  fried  it  brown — almost  to  a  crisp ! 

Five  cook-books  were  in  my  just-unpacked  library. 
Breakfast  over,  I  sought  out  Miss  Leslie's  Complete  Cook- 
Book,  and  read  up  on  beefsteak. 

Two  more  were  sent  in  that  day  from  country  parish- 
ioners. Next  morning,  I  hied  me  surreptitiously  to  the 
kitchen  before  my  husband  or  sister  was  awake.  I  bore 
the  steak  upon  a  charger — alias,  a  crockery  platter.  It 
had  been  under  lock  and  key  until  then;  otherwise,  its 
fair  proportions  would  inevitably  have  been  shorn.  The 
honesty  of  the  hired  hand  was  an  axiomatic  negligible 
quantity;  and  the  most  faithful  of  family  servants  sel- 
dom resisted  successfully  the  temptation  to  appropriate 
to  their  own  use  an  unlawful  share  of  eatables.  They  were 
a  gluttonous  race,  and  the  tenet  that  "taking  from  marster 
wasn't  stealing,"  stood  high  in  their  creed. 

I  had  told  Emily  overnight  that  I  would  show  her  how  a 
steak  should  be  cooked,  and  she  was  more  than  ready  for  me. 

337 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  had  never  touched  a  bit  of  raw  meat  before,  and  the 
clamminess  of  the  gory  cut  sent  "creeps"  all  over  me. 
It  was  very  bloody  to  my  eyes,  and  I  washed  it  well  in  cold 
water  preparatory  to  laying  it  upon  the  broad  bottom  of 
the  frying-pan,  heated  and  buttered,  which,  I  had  learned 
from  another  of  the  five  manuals,  was  "a  passable  sub- 
stitute for  a  gridiron  if  the  young  housekeeper  had  failed 
to  provide  herself  with  this  important  utensil."  Emily 
had  not  found  a  gridiron  in  the  box  of  kitchen  utensils 
unpacked  before  my  arrival,  and  there  was  no  time  to 
look  it  up.  The  steak,  dripping  wet,  went  into  the  broad 
pan  set  over  a  bed  of  red  coals.  We  cooked  with  wood  in 
Old  Virginia.  It  hissed  and  spluttered  and  steamed  like 
the  escape-valve  of  a  balky  locomotive.  Miss  Leslie  said, 
"Turn  it  at  the  end  of  eight  minutes."  The  sodden  pallor 
of  the  exposed  side  did  not  look  right  to  me,  somehow. 

"Oh!"  quoth  Emily,  "you  is  gwine  to  stew  it — is  you?" 

Pass  we  quickly  over  the  abhorrent  tale!  The  steak 
never  attained  unto  the  "rich  brown"  which,  according 
to  my  cook-book  makers,  it  should  display  when  ready  for 
table.  I  turned  it  four  times,  and,  with  a  vague  idea  that 
butter  browned  more  readily  than  meat,  I  added  a  great 
spoonful  to  the  juices  oozing  from  the  steak.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  gravy  in  the  dish  when  it  was  served,  and  my 
companions  pronounced  it  "extremely  savory." 

"But  you  should  not  have  gone  out  into  the  kitchen," 
demurred  my  husband.  "Does  not  the  cook  understand 
her  business?" 

"Few  of  her  class  can  do  without  teaching,"  I  rejoined, 
valiantly. 

I  had  already  made  a  resolve  from  which  I  never  swerved : 
If  my  cook  did  not  understand  her  business,  and  I  under- 
stood it  even  less,  I  would  not  confess  it.  As  time  went 
on,  I  was  to  feel  such  test  of  the  heroic  resolve  as  I  had  never 
anticipated.     For,  as  the  knowledge  of  Emily's  ineptitude 

33S 


MY    NOVITIATE    AS    A    HOUSEWIFE 

grew  upon  me,  the  conviction  of  my  own  crass  and  com- 
prehensive ignorance  waxed  into  a  haunting  horror.  I  was 
as  unlearned  as  the  babe  unborn  in  everything  that  a 
practical  housekeeper  should  know.  I  could  not  make  a 
batch  of  bread,  or  boil  a  potato,  or  broil  a  chop,  had  my 
eternal  welfare  —  or  my  husband's  happiness  —  depended 
upon  it.  As  for  soup-making,  roasting,  stewing,  and  boil- 
ing meats,  frying  and  baking  fish — the  very  commonest 
and  coarsest  rudiments  of  the  lore  in  which  I  was  supposed 
to  be  proficient— I  was  as  idiotically  void  of  comprehension 
as  if  I  had  never  heard  of  a  kitchen.  How  I  maintained  a 
brazen  show  of  competency  is  a  mystery  to  me  at  this 
distance  from  that  awful  trial-period.  I  studied  my 
quintette  of  cook-books  with  agonized  earnestness.  And 
when  I  was  tolerably  positive  that  I  had  mastered  a  recipe, 
I  "went  and  did  it"  with  Squeersian  philosophy.  How 
many  failures  were  buried  out  of  the  sight  of  those  who 
loved  me  best,  and  were  most  constantly  with  me,  would 
have  shocked  the  frugal  housewife  into  hysterics.  My 
mastery  of  this  and  of  that  process  was  painfully  slow,  but 
it  began  to  tell  upon  our  daily  fare.  I  got  out  the  gridiron, 
and  learned  to  cook  to  perfection  the  steaks  my  husband's 
soul  loved,  and  from  my  nonpareil  of  neighbors,  Mrs. 
Eggleston,  I  got  a  recipe  for  quick  biscuits. 

To  the  acquisition  of  that  particular  formula,  and  the  con- 
versation that  embedded  the  gift,  I  attribute  a  large  meas- 
ure of  the  success  which  eventually  rewarded  the  striving 
unto  blood,  that  was  my  secret  martyrdom  for  half  a  year. 

She  was  a  " capable"  housewife,  according  to  Mrs. 
Stowe's  characterization  of  the  guild.  She  was,  more- 
over, warm-hearted,  sensible,  and  sympathetically  remi- 
niscent of  her  own  early  struggles  with  the  housekeeping 
problem.  When  I  took  her  into  confidence  as  to  my  dis- 
trust of  my  quintette  of  manuals,  she  laughed  out  so  cheer- 
ily that  I  felt  the  fog  lift  from  my  spirits. 
23  339 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"All  written  by  old  maids,  or  by  women  who  never  kept 
house,"  she  declared.  "To  my  certain  knowledge,  Miss 
Leslie  has  boarded  in  a  Philadelphia  hotel  for  twenty 
years.  I  wouldn't  give  a  guinea  a  gross  for  their  books. 
Make  your  own!  /  do!  When  I  get  a  tiptop,  practical 
recipe — one  that  I  have  tried  for  myself  and  proved,  I 
write  it  down  in  my  own  every-day  language;  then  I  have 
met  that  enemy,  and  it  is  mine!" 

We  were  in  her  house,  and  she  brought  out  the  manu- 
script book  in  which  her  victories  were  recorded.  Next, 
she  offered  to  lend  it  to  me. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  subjoined,  tactfully,  "that  old- 
fashioned  housekeepers,  like  your  mother  and  mine — yes, 
and  my  mother-in-law — take  the  lively  interest  in  learning 
new  ways  of  doing  things  that  we  do.  I  am  very  proud  of 
some  discoveries  and  a  few  inventions  that  I  have  written 
down  there.  Those  quick  biscuits,  for  instance,  are  my 
resource  when  the  bread  doesn't  turn  out  just  right.  They 
never  fail.  And  speaking  of  bread,  here  is  a  sort  of  short- 
cut to  excellence  in  that  direction.  That  is  my  composition, 
too.    Take  the  book  with  you,  and  copy  anything  you  fancy." 

"Bread  is  Emily's  strong  point,"  I  remarked,  compla- 
cently, in  accepting  the  loan.  "Nevertheless,  I  shall  try 
your  composition." 

The  promise  was  fulfilled  in  a  way  I  had  not  expected. 
I  had  been  keeping  house  now  about  four  months,  and 
was  beginning  to  justify,  in  some  degree,  the  fond  boast  of 
the  son  to  the  father  of  my  familiarity  with  kitchen-craft, 
when  Emily  annoimced  one  morning,  as  I  was  "giving 
out"  for  the  day: 

"Tain'  no  use  measurin'  out  dat  ar'  flour,  Miss  Vir- 
ginny!"  (The  old-time  servant  never  said  "Mrs."  to,  or 
of  anybody.)  "I  done  got  my  han'  out  makin'  bread! 
I'd  jes'  spile  yer  flour  an'  things  ef  I  was  to  try  to  make 
a  batch  o'  bread." 

340 


MY    COOK    "GETS    HER    HAND    OUT" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  hands?"  I  looked  at 
the  members,  brown  and  brawny,  and  apparently  un- 
injured. 

She  spread  them  out  as  a  bat  might  his  wings,  and  re- 
garded them  in  affectionate  commiseration. 

"As  I  tole  you,  I  done  got  my  han'  out  for  makin'  bread. 
Nobody  don'  know  how-come  a  body's  han'  gits  out  for 
somethin'  or  'nother.  Sometimes,  it's  fur  bread,  an'  then 
agin  it's  fur  cake,  or  maybe  cookin'  chickens,  or  the  likes 
o'  that.  Thar's  some  as  thinks  it's  a  sort  of  bewitched, 
or  conjurin'.  Some  says  as  how  it's  the  ole  Satan  what 
takes  his  spite  on  us  that  'ar  way.  I  don't  know  nothin' 
bout  how  that  may  be.  I  jes'  know  that  my  han'  done 
got  out  for  makin'  bread.  I  been  done  feel  it  soon's  I  got 
out  o'  bade  this  mornin'." 

"And  may  I  ask,"  I  interrupted,  in  freezing  politeness 
that  was  utterly  wasted,  "how  long  your  hand  is  likely  to 
stay  out?" 

She  shook  her  head,  sadly,  imperturbably. 

"Nobody  can'  never  say  how  long,  Miss  Virginny.  May- 
be six  days,  and  maybe  two  mont's.  Sis'  Phoebe"  (fellow 
church-members  were  always  "Brother"  and  "Sister"  even 
in  e very-day  speech),  "what  b'long  to  Mars' Wyatt  Card- 
well,  she  got  her  han'  out  for  two  or  three  t'ings  at  oncet 
las'  year,  an'  sho's  you're  born  an'  I'm  standin'  here  in 
this  yere  blessed  sto'-room,  she  ain't  got  it  in  agin  fur 
better'n  six  mont.  I's  certainly  mighty  sorry  fur  you  an' 
Mars'  Ed'ard,  but  the  Lord's  will  is  jes'  p'intedly  got  to 
be  done." 

Constant  to  my  vow  of  discretion  in  all  things  pertain- 
ing to  domestic  tribulations,  I  said  never  a  word  to  the 
other  members  of  the  smitten  household  of  what  menaced 
them.  The  congestion  was  the  more  serious,  inasmuch  as 
there  was  not  a  baker  within  twenty  miles,  and  we  baked 
fresh  bread  and  rolls  every  day.     I  was  in  poor  physical 

341 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

case  for  culinary  enterprise,  for  one  of  the  constitutional 
headaches  which  I  had  inherited  from  both  parents  had 
warned  me  of  its  approach;  I  ought  to  keep  quiet  and  dis- 
courage the  advance.  Instead  of  which,  I  girded  up  the 
loins  of  my  spirit  and  concluded  that  there  could  hardly 
be  a  more  propitious  opportunity  for  trying  Mrs.  Eggle- 
ston's  bread  recipe.  Since  a  knowledge  of  practical  bread- 
making  was  one  of  life's  stringent  necessities  in  this  lati- 
tude, "better  sune  than  syne." 

I  set  the  sponge  at  noon,  in  pursuance  of  directions  laid 
down  so  explicitly  that  a  novice  with  a  headache  that  was 
by  now  a  fixed  fact,  could  not  err  therein.  I  could  not 
sit  up  to  supper  for  the  blinding  pain.  Alice  was  taking 
that  meal,  and  was  to  spend  the  evening  with  a  friend, 
and  my  husband  had  a  business  call  in  his  study.  No  one 
would  be  privy  to  the  appeal  I  meditated  making  to  my 
tyrant.  I  sent  for  her,  and  ordered  her  to  bring  to  my 
room  the  sponge  I  had  left  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the 
dining-room.  When  it  came,  I  bade  her  bring  kneading- 
tray  and  flour.  These  set  in  order  on  the  table,  I  called 
her  attention  to  the  hopeful  and  enticing  foaming  condi- 
tion of  the  sponge,  and  assured  her  that  no  evil  could  befall 
the  dough  if  she  were  to  knead  in  the  flour  and  prepare 
the  mass  for  the  night's  working,  there  under  my  eyes. 

She  planted  herself  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  sur- 
veyed me  mournfully — a  sphinx  done  in  chocolate. 

"I  suttinly  is  mighty  sorry  for  you,  Miss  Virginny,  an' 
I'd  do  anyt'ing  what  I  could  do  fur  to  help  you  out  o' 
you'  trouble.  But  thar  ain't  no  manner  o'  use  in  my  layin' 
my  han'  to  that  ar'  dough.  It  wouldn't  never  rise,  not 
'tell  the  jedgment-clay.  It  would  be  temptin'  Provi- 
dence, out  and  out.  When  a  body's  han'  is  out,  it's  out 
for  good  and  all!  I  done  do  my  best  to  make  you  onder- 
stan'  what's  happen'  to  me,  an'  angels  couldn't  do  no 
mo'!    Lord  'a'  mercy!    what  is  you  goin'  to  do?" 

342 


"COMMON    SENSE    IN    THE    HOUSEHOLD" 

I  had  jumped  up  and  belted  in  my  dressing  -  gown, 
rushed  to  the  wash-stand,  and  washed  my  hands  furiously. 
Without  a  syllable  I  tackled  the  sponge,  measured  and 
worked  in  the  flour,  and  fell  to  kneading  it  in  a  blind 
rage.  Pretty  soon  my  strength  flagged;  the  pain  in 
my  temples  and  back  of  the  eyes  beat  me  faint.  To 
get  a  better  purchase  on  the  stiffened  mass,  I  set  the  tray 
down  on  the  floor  and  knelt  over  it.  That  bread  had  to 
be  made  if  I  perished  in  the  attempt. 

The  chocolate-colored  sphinx  surveyed  me  sorrowfully, 
without  stirring  an  inch  from  her  place  on  the  hearth-rug. 

Neither  of  us  heard  the  door  open,  softly  and  cautiously, 
lest  the  noise  might  disturb  my  slumbers.  Both  of  us 
started  violently  at  the  voice  that  said: 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

I  sat  up  on  my  knees  and  faced  the  speaker,  essaying  a 
miserable  imitation  of  a  laugh. 

"Emily  has  got  her  hand  out  in  bread-making,  and  I 
am  trying  mine.     This  is  almost  ready  now." 

He  walked  across  the  floor  and  lifted  me  to  my  feet; 
laid  me  incontinently  upon  the  lounge,  and  confronted  the 
cook. 

"Take  up  that  tray!"  She  obeyed  dumbly.  "Carry 
it  out  into  the  kitchen  and  finish  the  bread.  Yes!  I 
mean  it !  Get  your  hand  in  before  you  are  a  minute  older, 
or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  And  if  the  bread  is  not  good, 
I  shall  send  you  back  to  your  master  to-morrow  morning, 
and  tell  him  I  have  no  further  use  for  you." 

He  would  have  cut  his  hand  off  before  he  would  have 
struck  a  woman,  and  the  creature  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did, 
but  she  cowered  before  the  blue  blaze  of  his  eyes,  as  at  a 
lightning  flash. 

His  call  stayed  her  on  the  threshold. 

"Do  you  understand  what  I  have  said?" 

The  sphinx  crumbled: 

343 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Ya'as,  suh!" 

"You  understand,  too,  that  your  hand  is  not  to  get 
out  again?" 

"Not  ef  I  can  holp  it,  Mars'  Ed'ard!" 

"See  that  you  do  help  it!" 

Then  I  held  my  head  hard  with  both  hands  to  keep  the 
sutures  from  flying  asunder,  and  laughed  until  I  cried. 

From  the  stress  and  toils,  the  mortifications  and  bewil- 
derment of  that  year,  grew  into  a  settled  purpose  the  long- 
ing to  spare  other  women — as  ill-equipped  as  I  was,  when  I 
entered  upon  my  housewifely  career — the  real  anguish  of  my 
novitiate.  The  foundation  of  Common  Sense  in  the  House- 
hold was  laid  in  the  manuscript  recipe -book  begun  at 
Mrs.  Eggleston's  instance.  I  had  learned,  to  my  bitter 
woe,  that  there  was  no  printed  manual  that  would  take 
the  tyro  by  the  hand  and  show  her  a  plain  path  between 
pitfalls  and  morasses.  I  learned,  by  degrees,  to  regard 
housewifery  as  a  profession  that  dignifies  her  who  follows 
it,  and  contributes,  more  than  any  other  calling,  to  the 
mental,  moral,  and  spiritual  sanity  of  the  human  race.  I 
received  my  call  to  this  ministry  in  that  cottage  parsonage. 

My  departure  from  the  beaten  track  of  novel- writing, 
in  which  I  had  achieved  a  moderate  degree  of  success,  was 
in  direct  opposition  to  the  advice  of  the  friends  to  whom 
I  mentioned  the  project.  The  publishers,  in  whose  hands 
my  first  cook-book  has  reached  the  million  mark,  confessed 
frankly  to  me,  after  ten  editions  had  sold  in  as  many 
months,  that  they  accepted  the  work  solely  in  the  hope  that 
I  might  give  them  a  novel  at  some  subsequent  period. 
Even  my  husband  shook  a  doubtful  head  over  the  wild 
scheme.  It  was  the  only  book  published  by  me  that  had 
not  his  frank  and  hearty  approval.  Upheld  by  the  rooted 
conviction  that  I  had  been  made,  through  my  own  short- 
comings and  battles,  fit  to  supply  what  American  women 
lacked  and  needed  sorely,  I  never  debated  or  doubted. 

344 


"COMMON    SENSE    IN    THE    HOUSEHOLD" 

My  husband  found  me  "gloating"  over  a  copy  of  Com- 
mon Sense  the  week  after  it  was  published. 

"I  verily  believe,"  he  said,  wonderingly,  "that  you 
take  more  pride  in  that  book  than  in  all  the  rest  you  have 
written." 

I  answered,  confidently,  "It  will  do  more  good  than  all 
of  them  put  together." 

This  was  fifteen  years  after  Emily's  hand  got  out,  and 
I  knelt  on  the  carpet  in  my  bedroom  to  knead  my  trial 
batch  of  bread. 


XXXV 

THE  STIRRED  "NEST  AMONG  THE  OAKS" — A  CRUCIAL  CRISIS 

"Charlotte  C.  H.,  Ajyril  12th,  1857. 

"My  still-remembered  Friend, — It  is  a  raw,  cloudy  Sun- 
day afternoon;  Mr.  Terhune  is  suffering  somewhat  from  a  cold, 
and  is,  moreover,  fatigued  by  the  labors  of  the  day.  I  have 
persuaded  him  to  take  a  siesta  on  the  lounge.  Even  my  birds 
are  quiet  under  the  drowsy  influence  of  the  weather,  and  only 
the  fire  and  clock  interrupt  the  stillness  of  my  pleasant 
chamber.  .  .  . 

"I  have  been  on  the  point  several  times  of  writing  to  you 
(despite  your  broken  promise  of  last  September),  begging  you 
to  visit  us  during  the  summer.  Need  I  say  how  happy  we 
should  be  to  see  you  in  our  Home? 

"It  is  a  sweet  word  to  my  ear,  a  sweet  place  to  my  heart, 
for  a  happier  was  never  granted  to  mortals.  I  do  not  say 
this  as  a  matter  of  course.  You  should  know  me  too  well 
than  to  suppose  that.  It  comes  up  freely — joyously — from 
a  brimming  heart.  My  only  fear  is  lest  my  cup  should  be  too 
full,  for  what  more  could  I  ask  at  the  hands  of  the  Giver  of 
mercies?  I  have  a  dear  little  home,  furnished  in  accordance 
with  my  own  taste;  delightful  society,  and  an  abundance  of 
it;  perfect  health,  having  scarcely  seen  a  sick  day  since  my 
marriage — and  the  best  husband  that  lives  upon  the  globe.  .  .  . 

"This  is  a  large  and  flourishing  church,  demanding  much 
hard  work  on  his  part;  but  he  is  young  and  strong,  and  he 
loves  his  profession.  We  visit  constantly  together,  and  here 
end  my  out-of-door  'pastoral  duties.'  Within  doors,  my  aim 
is  to  make  home  bright;  to  guard  my  husband  from  annoy- 
ance and  intrusion  during  study-hours;  to  entertain  him 
when  he  is  weary,  and  to  listen  sympathizingly  to  all  that 

346 


THE  STIRRED  "NEST  AMONG  THE  OAKS" 

interests  him.  I  shall  never  be  a  model  'minister's  wife.' 
I  knew  that  from  the  first,  so  I  have  never  attempted  to  play 
the  role.  Fortunately,  it  is  not  expected,  much  less  de- 
manded. 

"  We  shall  make  a  flying  visit  to  Richmond  in  May.  After 
that,  we  shall  be  at  home,  off  and  on,  certainly  until  Septem- 
ber. Our  cottage  parsonage — the  'little  nest  among  the 
oaks,'  as  Alice  calls  it — is  ever  ready  to  receive  you,  and  so 
are  our  hearts. 

"Were  my  other  and  very  much  better  half  awake,  he 
would  join  me  in  love  and  good  wishes,  for  I  have  taught  him 
to  know  and  to  love  you  all." 

A  year  after  my  marriage,  the  friend  of  my  childhood 
and  the  intimate  correspondent  of  my  girl-life,  was  mar- 
ried to  Rev.  William  Campbell,  the  pastor  of  ''Mount 
Carmel,"  the  pretty  country  church  in  which  my  forebears 
and  contemporaries  had  worshipped  for  generations,  the 
church  for  which  my  great-grandfather  gave  the  land;  in 
which  he  was  the  first  ordained  elder,  and  in  which  my 
beloved  "Cousin  Joe"  ("Uncle  Archie")  had  succeeded 
him  in  the  same  office.  In  Mount  Carmel  I  had  taken  my 
first  Communion,  and  here  the  new  wife  of  the  pastor  was 
to  be  welcomed  into  full  fellowship  with  her  husband's  flock 
in  November.  My  husband  was  invited  by  Mr.  Campbell 
to  take  the  service  on  that  day,  and  I  was  warmly  pressed 
to  accompany  him. 

"Charlotte  C.  H.,  November  8th,  1857. 

"My  own  dear  Friend, — A  fact  overlooked  by  Mr.  Ter- 
hune  and  myself,  occurred  to  me  a  little  while  ago — viz.,  that 
there  is  only  a  semi-weekly  mail  to  Smithville.  Therefore, 
to  insure  your  reception  of  this  in  season  at  Montrose,  it 
should  go  from  this  place  to-morrow.  It  was  Mr.  Terhune's 
intention  to  drop  a  line  to  Mr.  Campbell  to-night;  but  I  have 
begged  that  I  might  write  to  you  instead. 

"I  have  many  and  bright  hopes  for  you.  Hopes,  not  'as 
lovely  as  baseless,'  but  founded  upon  a  knowledge  of  your 

347 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

character  and  that  of  him  whom  God  has  given  you  as  your 
other  and  stronger  self.  When  I  rejoiced  in  your  union,  it 
was  with  sincere  and  full  delight.  You  have  a  mate  worthy 
of  you — one  whom  you  love;  and  who  loves  you.  What  more 
does  the  woman's  heart  crave?  You  have  chosen  wisely,  and 
happiness,  such  as  you  have  never  known  before,  must  follow. 

"Will  you  not  come  up  and  see  us  this  winter?  Nothing 
would  give  me  more  pleasure  than  to  see  you  in  our  dear  little 
home. 

"Mr.  Terhune  is  very  anxious  that  I  should  accompany  him 
to  Powhatan,  but  I  dare  not  suffer  my  mind  to  dwell  upon  a 
project  so  charming.  He  cannot,  all  at  once,  get  used  to 
visiting  without  me,  but  in  the  crib,  over  in  the  corner,  lies 
an  insurmountable  obstacle — tiny  to  view,  but  which  may 
not  be  set  aside. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  my  noble  boy,  who  will  be  two  months 
old  to-morrow!  He  is  very  pretty,  says  the  infallible  'Every- 
body.' To  us,  he  is  passing  dear.  Already  he  recognizes  us 
and  frolics  by  the  half -hour  with  us,  laughing  and  cooing — the 
sweetest  music  that  ever  sounded  through  our  hearts  and 
home.  Nothing  but  the  extreme  inconvenience  attendant 
upon  travelling  and  visiting  with  so  young  a  child,  prevents 
me  from  accompanying  the  Reverend  gentleman.  .  .  . 

"I  have  no  advice  to  give  you  except  that  you  shall  be 
yourself,  instead  of  following  the  kind  suggestions  of  any  Mrs. 
Grundy  who  has  an  ideal  pattern  of  the  'Minister's  Wife' 
ready  for  you  to  copy.  I  am  confident  that  you  will  be 
'helpmeet'  for  the  man,  and  since  he  will  ask  no  more,  his 
parish  has  no  right  to  do  it. 

"My  warm  regards  to  Mr.  Campbell.  When  I  see  him  I 
will  congratulate  him.  You  would  not  deliver  the  messages 
I  would  send  to  him.     'Eddie'  sends  a  kiss  to  'Auntie  Effie.'" 

In  folding,  almost  reverently,  the  time-dyed  letter  and 
laying  it  beside  the  rest  in  the  box  at  the  bottom  of  which 
I  found  the  sallowed  "P.P.C."  card,  date  of  "September 
2,  1856,"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  shutting  the  door  and  turning 
the  key  upon  that  far-away  time;  bidding  farewell  to  a 

34S 


THE  STIRRED  "NEST  AMONG  THE  OAKS" 

state  of  society  that  seems,  by  contrast  with  the  complex 
interests  of  To-day,  pastoral  in  simplicity.  In  reviewing 
the  setting  and  scenes  of  my  early  history,  I  am  reading  a 
quaint  chronicle,  inhaling  an  atmosphere  redolent  of  spices 
beloved  of  our  granddames,  and  foreign  to  their  descend- 
ants. 

It  is  not  I  who  have  told  the  story,  but  the  girl  from 
provinces  that  are  no  more  on  earth  than  if  they  had 
never  been.  The  Spirit  of  that  Past  is  the  narrator.  I 
sit  with  her  by  the  open  "  chimney-piece,"  packed  as  far 
as  arms  can  reach  with  blazing  hickory  logs ;  as  she  talks, 
the  imagery  of  a  yet  older  day  comes  to  my  tongue.  We 
knew  our  Bibles  "by  heart"  in  both  senses  of  the  term,  then, 
and  believed  in  the  spiritual  symbolism  of  that  perfervid 
love-Canticle — the  song  of  the  Royal  Preacher.  I  find  my- 
self whispering  certain  musical  phrases  while  the  tale  goes 
on,  and  the  story-teller's  face  grows  more  rapt: 

"Thy  lips  drop  as  the  honey-comb;  honey  and  milk  are 
under  thy  tongue;  and  the  smell  of  thy  garments  is  like 
the  smell  of  Lebanon; 

"Thy  plants  are  an  orchard  of  pomegranates  with  pleas- 
ant fruits;    camphire,  with  spikenard; 

"Spikenard  and  saffron;   calamus  and  cinnamon." 

It  is  not  a  mystic  love-chant,  or  a  dreamy  jargon,  that 
I  recite  under  my  breath.  The  sadly  few  (more  sad  and 
few  with  each  year)  who  recall  with  me  the  days  that  are 
no  more — and  forever — will  feel  what  I  cannot  put  into 
words. 

Soon  after  the  dawn  of  the  year  1858,  we  had  news  of 
the  death  of  my  husband's  youngest  sister,  a  bright,  en- 
gaging matron,  of  whom  I  had  grown  very  fond  in  my 
visits  to  her  New  Jersey  home.  The  happy  wife  of  a  man 
who  adored  her,  and  the  mother  of  a  beautiful  boy,  she 
had  but  one  unfulfilled  wish  on  earth.     When  a  baby-girl 

349 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  put  into  her  arms,  she  confessed  this,  and  that  now 
she  could  ask  nothing  more  of  heaven.  The  coveted  gift 
cost  her  her  life. 

In  March,  my  dearest  friend,  Mary  Ragland,  paid  a  long- 
promised  visit  to  the  "nest  among  the  oaks."  She  had 
not  been  strong  all  winter.  She  was  never  robust.  I 
brought  her  up  from  town,  in  joyous  confidence  that  the 
climate  that  had  kept  me  well  and  vigorous  would  brace 
her  up  to  concert  pitch.  For  a  few  weeks  she  seemed  to 
justify  that  belief.  Then  the  languor  and  slow  fever  re- 
turned. She  faded  before  our  incredulous  eyes  as  a  flower 
droops  on  the  stem.  She  had  no  pain,  and  so  slight  was 
the  rise  in  temperature  that  made  her  thirsty  by  night, 
that  we  would  not  have  detected  it  had  she  not  mentioned 
casually  at  breakfast  that  she  arose  to  get  a  drink  of  water, 
and  chanced  to  see,  through  the  window,  a  lunar  rainbow. 
This  led  to  the  discovery  that  she  always  arose  two  or 
three  times  each  night  to  quench  her  thirst.  It  was  char- 
acteristic that  she  saw  the  rainbow,  and  was  eager  to  re- 
port it  next  day.  Beautiful  things  floated  to  her  by  some 
law  of  natural  attraction.  She  never  took  to  her  bed.  To 
the  last,  she  averred,  laughingly,  that  she  was  "only  lazy 
and  languid."     She  "would  be  all  right  very  soon." 

As  a  sort  of  low  delirium  overtook  her  senses,  her  fan- 
tasies were  all  of  fair  and  lovely  sights  and  sweet  sounds. 
She  asked  me  "where  I  got  the  chain  of  pearls  I  was  wear- 
ing, and  why  she  had  never  seen  it  before?"  She  ex- 
claimed at  the  beauty  of  garlands  of  flowers  wreathing 
pictures  and  window-cornices,  invisible  to  our  eyes.  Music 
— a  passion  of  her  life— was  a  solace  in  the  fearful  restless- 
ness of  the  dying  hours.  She  would  have  us  sing  to  her — 
first  one,  then  the  other,  for  an  hour  at  a  time — lying  peace- 
fully attent,  with  that  unearthly  radiance  upon  her  face 
that  never  left  it  until  the  coffin-lid  shut  it  from  our  sight, 
and  joining  in,  when  a  favorite  hymn  was  sung,  with  the 

350 


A    CRUCIAL    CRISIS 

rich  contralto  which  was  her  "part"  in  our  family  con- 
certs. 

"She  is  singing  herself  away,"  said  my  husband,  at  twi- 
light on  the  ninth  of  May — my  mother's  birthday. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening  the  swan-song  was  hushed. 

We  carried  her  down  to  Richmond,  the  next  day  but  one. 

I  have  said  elsewhere  that  it  is  not  given  to  one  to  have 
two  perfect,  all-satisfying,  friendships  this  side  of  the  Land 
that  is  all  Love.  She  had  gladdened  our  cottage  for  little 
over  a  month.  It  was  never  quite  the  same  after  she  flew 
heavenward.     Nor  was  my  life. 

To  everybody  else,  it  seemed  that  the  "stirring"  of  the 
nest  began  during  the  visit  we  paid  to  Northern  friends 
that  summer. 

Our  vacation  was  longer  than  usual.  It  could  not  be 
gay,  for  our  mourning  garments  expressed  but  inade- 
quately the  gloom  from  which  our  spirits  could  not  escape, 
with  the  memory  of  two  bereavements  fresh  in  the  minds 
of  all. 

It  was  during  this  sojourn  with  the  relatives,  whose 
adoption  of  me  had  been  frankly  affectionate  from  the  be- 
ginning of  our  association,  that  I  learned  of  the  desire  of 
my  father-in-law  to  have  his  son  removed  nearer  to  the 
rest  of  the  family.  The  old  Judge  was  proud  and  fond  of 
the  boy,  and  Virginia  was  a  long  distance  away  from  New 
York — to  him,  and  other  loyal  Middle  Statesmen,  as  truly 
the  Hub  of  Civilization  as  Boston  to  the  born  Bostonian. 
Moreover,  the  Village  Church  at  Charlotte  Court-House  was 
a  country  charge,  although  eminently  respectable  in  char- 
acter, and  honorable  in  all  things  pertaining  to  church 
traditions.  Other  men  as  young,  and,  in  the  father's  opin- 
ion, inferior  in  talent  and  education,  were  called  to  city 
parishes.  "It  was  not  right  for  Edward  to  bury  himself 
in  the  backwoods  until  such  time  as  he  would  be  too  near 
the  dead  line,  with  respect  to  age,  to  hope  for  preferment." 

351 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

All  this  and  more  of  the  like  purport  fell  upon  unheeding 
ears,  when  addressed  to  me.  I  had  but  one  answer  to  make, 
after  listening  respectfully  to  argument  and  appeal : 

"I  promised  Edward,  of  my  own  free  will  and  accord, 
before  our  marriage,  that  I  would  never  attempt  to  sway 
his  judgment  in  anything  relating  to  his  profession.  Least 
of  all,  would  I  cast  the  weight  of  what  influence  I  might 
have  into  either  scale,  if  he  were  called  upon  to  make  a 
change  of  pastorate.     He  must  do  as  he  thinks  best." 

More  than  one  church  had  made  overtures  to  the  rising 
man,  and  his  kindred  were  hanging  eagerly  upon  his  de- 
cision. The  initial  "stir"  had  been  given.  It  was  a 
positive  relief  when  we  turned  our  faces  southward. 

The  nest  was  full  that  autumn.  My  husband's  widower 
brother-in-law,  crushed  by  his  late  bereavement,  and  com- 
pelled to  resign  the  home  in  which  his  wife  had  taken  just 
pride;  helpless,  as  only  a  man  of  strictly  domestic  tastes 
can  be  in  such  circumstances,  abandoned  his  profession  of 
the  law,  and  resolved  to  study  divinity.  My  brother  Her- 
bert turned  his  back  upon  a  promising  business  career, 
and  made  the  same  resolution.  Both  men  were  rusty  in 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  neither  knew  anything  of  Hebrew. 
My  husband — ever  generous  to  a  fault  in  the  expenditure 
of  his  own  time  and  strength  in  the  service  of  others — 
rashly  offered  to  "coach"  them  for  a  few  months.  I  think 
they  believed  him,  when  he  represented  that  Latin  was 
mere  play  to  him,  and  that  an  hour  or  two  a  day  would 
be  an  advantage  to  him  in  refreshing  his  recollection  of 
other  dead  languages. 

Alice  and  I  bemoaned  ourselves,  in  confidence  and  privily, 
over  the  loss  of  the  quietly-happy  evenings  when  we  sewed 
or  crocheted,  while  the  third  person  of  the  trio  read  aloud, 
as  few  other  men  could  read — according  to  our  notion.  We 
grudged  sharing  the  merry  chats  over  the  little  round  table 
with  those  who  were  not  quite  au  fait  to  all  our  mots  de 

352 


A    CRUCIAL    CRISIS 

famille,  and  did  not  invariably  sympathize  with  our  judg- 
ment of  people  and  things.  Mr.  Frazee  was  one  of  the  most 
genial  of  men — good  through  and  through,  and  as  kind  of 
heart  as  he  was  engaging  in  manner.  My  brother  was  a 
fine  young  fellow,  and  his  sisters  loved  him  dearly.  It 
was  ungracious,  ungenerous,  and  all  the  other  "uns"  in 
the  English  language,  to  regret  the  former  order  of  every- 
day life.  We  berated  ourselves  soundly,  at  each  of  our 
secret  conferences,  and  kept  on  doing  it.  Home  was  still 
passing  lovely,  but  the  stirring  went  on. 

Is  everything — moral,  spiritual,  and  physical — epidemic  ? 
I  put  the  question  to  myself  when,  less  than  a  week  after 
the  arrival  of  an  invitation  to  become  the  leader  of  the 
Third  Presbyterian  Church  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  and 
before  a  definite  answer  was  returned,  the  mail  brought  an 
important  document,  portentous  with  signatures  and  seals 
official,  requesting  Rev.  Edward  Payson  Terhune  to  assume 
the  pastorate  of  the  First  Reformed  Church  in  Newark, 
New  Jersey. 

Here  was  a  crucial  test  of  my  voluntary  pledge  never,  by 
word,  look,  or  deed,  to  let  my  husband  suspect  the  trend  of 
my  inclinations  with  respect  to  any  proposed  change  of 
clerical  relations! 

For,  as  I  am  at  liberty  now  to  confess,  I  wanted  to  go 
to  Richmond  horribly!  Family,  friends,  ties  of  early  as- 
sociation, strengthened  by  nearly  fifteen  years  of  residence 
at  the  formative  period  of  life;  the  solicitations  of  parents, 
brothers,  sisters,  and  true  and  tried  intimates,  who  wrote  to 
say  how  delighted  they  were  at  the  prospect  of  having  me 
"back  home" — tugged  at  my  heartstrings  until  I  needed 
Spartan  firmness  of  will  and  stoical  reticence,  to  hold  me 
fast  to  my  vow.  Meanwhile,  letters  bearing  Northern 
postmarks  were  fluttering  down  upon  the  one  whose  must 
be,  not  the  casting  vote  alone,  but  the  responsibility  of  the 
decision  of  what  he  felt  was  one  of  the  most  momentous 

353 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

problems  he  was  ever  to  face.  Fortunately,  neither  of  us 
knew  then  the  full  gravity  of  the  crisis. 

Looking  back  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  I  see  so  clearly 
the  working  out  of  a  benign  and  merciful  design  in  what 
was  then  perplexity,  puzzle,  and  pain,  that  I  cannot  say 
whether  humility  or  devout  gratitude  has  the  ascendancy 
in  my  thoughts.  Especially  is  this  true  when  I  reflect 
that  strength  was  vouchsafed  to  me  to  hold  my  peace,  even 
from  what  I  conceived  was  "good,"  when  my  husband 
brought  both  calls  to  me,  after  four  days  of  anxious 
deliberation,  and  bade  me  speak  one  word  in  favor  of, 
or  against,  either. 

Side  by  side,  they  lay  upon  my  table,  and  with  them  a 
paper  upon  which  he  had  set  down,  clearly  and  fairly,  the 
pros  and  cons  of  each. 

He  read  these  aloud,  slowly  and  emphatically,  then 
looked  up  at  me. 

"I  am  in  a  sore  strait!    Can  you  help  me?" 

In  my  heart  I  thought  I  could,  and  that  right  speedily. 
With  my  tongue  I  said:  "No  one  has  a  right  to  say  a 
word.     It  is  a  matter  between  God  and  yourself." 

He  took  up  the  papers  silently,  and  went  to  the  study. 
And  I  prayed,  with  strong  crying  and  tears,  that  God 
would  send  us  to  Richmond. 

An  hour  later  he  came  back.  The  light  of  a  settled  pur- 
pose was  in  his  face.    All  he  said  was : 

"I  have  decided  to  go  to  Newark.  We  will  talk  it  over 
to-morrow  morning." 

He  slept  soundly  that  night,  for  the  first  time  in  a  week. 
So  did  not  I! 


XXXVI 

MIGRATION    NORTHWARD — ACCLIMATION — ALBERT    EDWARD, 
PRINCE    OF   WALES,  IN    NEW   YORK — POLITICAL   PORTENTS 

One  who  had  known  my  husband  well  for  fifty  years, 
wrote  of  him  soon  after  his  translation:  "More  than  any 
other  man  I  ever  knew,  he  had  a  genius  for  friendship." 

This  testimony  is  amply  supported  by  the  fact  that  he 
kept,  to  his  journey's  end,  the  friends  whose  loving  con- 
fidence he  gained  during  the  five  years  of  his  Charlotte 
pastorate.  Those  who  loved  him  in  his  youth  loved  him 
to  the  end — or  so  many  of  them  as  remained  to  see  the 
beautiful  close  of  his  long  day. 

We  left  our  Parsonage  home  and  the  parish,  which  was 
our  first  love,  laden  with  proofs  of  the  deep  affection  in- 
spired by  devoted  service  in  behalf  of  a  united  constituency, 
and  the  rare  personal  gifts  of  the  man  who  suffered,  in  the 
parting,  a  wrench  as  sharp  as  that  which  made  the  separa- 
tion a  grief  to  each  member  of  the  flock  he  was  leaving. 
It  was  a  just  tribute  to  his  integrity  of  purpose  and  con- 
scientiousness that  the  purity  of  his  motives  in  deciding 
upon  the  step  were  never  questioned.  Leading  men  in  the 
church  said  openly  that  they  could  not  have  hoped  to  keep 
him,  after  his  talents  and  his  ability  to  fill  worthily  a  wider 
field  were  recognized  in  the  world  outlying  this  section  of 
the  Great  Vineyard-  They  had  foreseen  that  the  parting 
must  come,  and  that  before  long.  He  was  a  growing  man, 
and  the  sphere  they  offered  was  narrow. 

It  was  in  no  spirit  of  Christian  philosophy  that  I  dis- 
mantled the  nest  among  the  oaks,  and  packed  my  Lares 

24  355 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  Penates  with  a  fair  show  of  cheerfulness.  Inly.  I 
was  in  high  revolt  for  a  full  week  after  the  die  was  cast. 
The  final  acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  and  the  steadfast 
setting  of  my  face  Northward,  ensued  upon  the  persuasion 
that  the  one  and  only  thing  for  a  sensible,  God-fearing 
woman  to  do  was  to  make  the  very  best  of  what  no  human 
power  could  avert. 

It  is  a  family  saying,  based  upon  the  assertion  of  my 
eldest  daughter,  that  "if  mother  were  set  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  and  made  to  comprehend 
that  she  must  spend  the  rest  of  her  days  there,  she  would, 
within  ten  minutes,  begin  to  expatiate  upon  the  many 
advantages  of  a  dry  climate  as  a  residential  region." 

By  the  time  we  stayed  our  flight  in  Richmond,  where 
we  spent  our  Christmas,  I  took  from  the  worn  and  harassed 
man  of  the  hour  the  burden  of  explanation  and  defence  of 
the  reasons  for  tearing  ourselves  up  by  the  roots  and  trans- 
planting the  tender  vine  into  what  some  of  our  best  wishers 
called,  " alien  soil."  I  had  worked  myself  into  an  honest 
defender  of  the  Middle  States  in  contradistinction  to 
"Yankee  land,"  before  we  departed,  bag,  baggage,  and 
baby,  for  the  new  home. 

Mr.  Terhune  had  preached  twice  in  Newark,  in  Decem- 
ber, after  formally  accepting  the  call.  We  removed  to  that 
city  in  February  of  1859. 

With  the  Saharan  spirit  in  full  flow,  I  met  the  welcoming 
"people";  settled  in  the  house  we  bought  in  a  pleasant 
quarter  of  the  growing  city — then  claiming  a  population 
of  less  than  seventy-five  thousand — installed  white  ser- 
vants ;  received  and  returned  calls,  and  was,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  homesick  at  heart  for  three 
months. 

In  the  recollection  of  the  eighteen  years  that  succeeded 
that  period  of  blind  rebellion  against  the  gentle  leading 
which  was,  for  us,  wisdom  and  loving-kindness  through- 

356 


ACCLIMATION 

out,  I  write  down  the  confession  in  shame  and  confusion 
of  face,  and  abasement  of  soul. 

I  stay  the  course  of  the  narrative  at  this  point  to  record, 
devoutly  and  gratefully,  that  never  had  pastor  and  pastor's 
wife,  in  any  section  of  our  land,  a  parish  in  which  "  pleasant 
places"  did  more  richly  abound.  I  would  write  down,  yet 
more  emphatically  and  thankfully,  the  amazing  fact  that, 
in  the  dozen-and-a-half  years  of  my  dwelling  among  them, 
I  never  had  a  word  of  unkind  criticism  of  myself  and  my 
ways;  not  a  remark  that  could  wound  or  offend  was 
ever  addressed  to  me. 

I  wish  I  might  have  that  last  paragraph  engraved  in 
golden  capitals  and  set  to  the  everlasting  credit  of  that 
Ideal  Parish!  To  this  hour,  I  turn  instinctively  in  times 
of  joy  and  of  sorrow,  as  to  members  of  the  true  household 
of  faith,  to  the  comparatively  small  band  of  the  once  large 
congregation  who  are  left  alive  upon  the  earth. 

For  eighteen  years  I  walked  up  the  central  aisle  of  the 
church,  as  I  might  tread  the  halls  and  chambers  of  my 
father's  house  in  that  far  Southern  town,  with  the  conscious- 
ness that  we  were  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  affec- 
tionate appreciation,  at  once  comforting  and  invigorating. 

All  this — and  I  understate,  rather  than  exaggerate,  the 
real  state  of  circumstance  and  feeling  I  am  trying  to  de- 
pict— was  the  more  surprising,  because  I  went  to  this  peo- 
ple young,  and  with  little  experience  as  a  clergyman's  wife. 
In  Charlotte,  I  had,  as  we  have  seen,  done  no  "church 
work."  I  was  petted  and  made  much  of,  in  consideration 
of  my  position  as  the  wife  of  the  idolized  pastor,  and  my 
newness  to  the  duties  of  country  housekeeping  and  the 
nursery.  In  Newark,  I  was  gradually  to  discover  that  I 
could  not  shirk  certain  obligations  connected  with  parish 
and  city  charities.  The  logic  of  events — never  the  moni- 
tions of  friends  and  parishioners — opened  my  eyes  to  the 
truth.     When,  at  length,  I  took  charge  of  a  girls'  Bible 

357 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Class,  and,  some  years  after,  worked  up  the  Infant  Class 
from  tens  to  hundreds,  there  was  much  expression  of  un- 
feigned gratification  and  eager  rallying  to  my  help,  not 
an  intimation  of  relief  that  I  "had,  at  last,  seen  my  way 
clear  to  the  performance  of  what  everybody  else  had 
expected  of  a  minister's  wife." 

I  have  never  had  a  higher  compliment  than  was  paid  me 
by  the  invitation,  a  dozen  years  back,  to  address  the 
Alumni  of  Union  Theological  Seminary  in  New  York 
City  upon  the  subject  of  "Ministers'  Wives." 

I  took  occasion,  in  the  presence  of  that  grave  and  rev- 
erend assembly  of  distinguished  theologues,  to  pay  a  brief 
tribute,  as  strong  as  words  could  make  it,  to  that  Ideal 
Parish.  I  could  not  withhold  it  then.  I  cannot  keep  it 
back  now.  I  believe  my  experience  in  this  regard  to  be 
highly  exceptional.     More's  the  pity  and  the  shame! 

Five  children  were  born  to  us  in  those  happy,  busy  years. 
Each  was  adopted  lovingly  by  the  people,  so  far  as  prideful 
affection  and  generous  deeds  implied  adoption.  We  were 
all  of  one  family. 

Returning  to  the  direct  line  of  my  narrative — the  spring 
of  1860  found  us  well,  at  work,  and  contented.  I  had  good 
servants,  kindly  neighbors,  and  a  growing  host  of  con- 
genial acquaintances.  Our  proximity  to  New  York  was 
an  important  factor  in  the  lives  of  both  of  us,  bringing  us, 
as  it  did,  within  easy  reach  of  the  best  libraries  and  shops 
in  the  country,  and  putting  numberless  means  of  enter- 
tainment and  education  at  our  very  door.  There  were 
two  babies  by  now — healthy,  happy,  bright — in  every 
way  thoroughly  satisfactory  specimens  of  infant  humanitj^. 
In  the  matter  of  children's  nurses,  I  have  been  extraor- 
dinarily blessed  among  American  women.  In  the  twenty- 
one  years  separating  the  birth  of  our  elder  boy  from  the 
day  when  the  younger  was  released  from  nursery  govern- 
ment, I  had  but  three  of  these  indispensable  comforts. 

358 


PRINCE    OF   WALES    IN    NEW   YORK 

Two  married  after  years  of  faithful  service;  the  third 
retired  upon  an  invalid's  pension.  All  were  Irish  by  birth. 
After  much  experience  in,  and  more  observation  of,  the 
Domestic  Service  of  these  United  States,  I  incline  to  be- 
lieve that,  as  a  rule,  we  draw  our  best  material  from  Celtic 
emigrant  stock. 

So  smoothly  ran  the  sands  of  life  that  I  recall  but  one 
striking  incident  in  the  early  part  of  18G0.  That  was  the 
visit  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  this  country.  We  witnessed 
the  passage  of  the  long  procession  that  received  and  es- 
corted him  up-town,  to  his  quarters  at  the,  then,  new  and 
fashionable  hostelry — the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel.  My  hus- 
band went  down  to  the  Battery  to  see  the  princeling's 
review  of  the  regiments  drawn  up  in  line  before  him,  as  he 
rode  from  end  to  end  of  the  parade-ground. 

Joining  us  at  the  window,  from  which  we  had  a  splendid 
view  of  the  pageant,  the  critic,  who  was  an  accomplished 
horseman,  reported  disdainfully  that  "the  boy  was  ex- 
ceedingly awkward.  He  had  no  seat  to  speak  of,  leaning 
forward,  until  his  weak  chin  was  nearly  on  a  line  with  the 
horse's  ears,  and  sticking  his  feet  out  stiffly  on  each  side." 

Our  impression  of  the  imperial  youth  was  not  more  agree- 
able. He  sat  back  in  the  open  coach,  "hunched"  together 
in  an  ungainly  heap,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the 
left,  evincing  no  consciousness  of  the  existence  of  the 
shouting  throngs  that  lined  the  pavements  ten  deep,  other 
than  by  raising,  with  the  lifeless  precision  of  a  mechanical 
toy,  the  cocked  hat  he  wore  as  part  of  the  uniform  of  a 
British  colonel. 

There  was  a  big  ball  the  next  night,  at  which  gowns  of 
fabulous  prices  were  sported,  and  reported  by  the  news- 
papers, and  Albert  Edward  flitted  on  to  his  mother's  do- 
minions of  Canada,  leaving  not  a  ripple  in  the  ocean  of 
local  and  national  happenings. 

That  ocean  was  stilling  and  darkening  with  the  brood- 

359 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ing  of  a  threatening  storm.  Newspapers  bristled  with 
portents  and  denunciations;  demagogues  bellowed  them- 
selves hoarse  in  parks  and  from  stumps;  torchlight  pro- 
cessions displayed  new  and  startling  features. 

"So  much  for  so  little!"  sighed  I,  upon  our  return  from 
a  lookout  at  the  nearest  corner,  commanding  long  miles 
of  marching  men.  "It  was  ingenious  and  amusing;  but 
what  a  deal  of  drilling  those  embryo  patriots  must  have 
gone  through  to  do  it  so  well !  And  for  what  ?  The  Presi- 
dent will  be  elected,  as  other  Presidents  have  been,  and 
as  maybe  a  hundred  others  will  be,  and  there  the  farce 
will  end.     Does  it  pay  to  amuse  themselves  so  very  hard?" 

"If  we  could  be  sure  that  it  would  end  there!"  an- 
swered my  husband,  with  unexpected  gravity.  "The  sky 
is  red  and  lowering  in  the  South.  Between  politicians,  and 
the  freedom  of  the  press  to  play  with  all  sorts  of  explosives, 
there  is  no  telling  what  the  rabble  may  do." 

I  looked  up,  startled. 

"You  are  not  in  earnest?  The  good  Ship  of  State  has 
been  driving  straight  on  to  the  rocks  ever  since  I  can  recol- 
lect, and  she  has  not  struck  yet.  Think  of  the  Clay  and 
Polk  campaign!" 

"Child's  play  compared  with  the  fight  that  is  on  now!" 
was  the  curt  retort. 

Something — I  know  not  what — in  his  manner  moved  me 
to  put  a  leading  question. 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  how  you  will  vote?" 

"Yes." 

"A  month  ago,  you  said  you  had  not." 

"A  good  deal  has  happened  in  that  month." 

It  was  not  like  him  to  be  sententious  with  me,  but  I 
pushed  the  subject. 

"I  have  never  interfered  with  your  political  opinions, 
as  you  know,  and  I  don't  care  to  vote,  myself;  but  if  I  had 
a  vote,  I  should  be  in  no  doubt  where  to  cast  it.      Lovers 

360 


POLITICAL    PORTENTS 

of  peace  and  concord  should  unite  upon  Bell  and  Everett. 
That  party  seems  to  me  to  represent  the  sanest  element 
in  this  mammoth  muddle." 

He  smiled. 

"To  say  nothing  of  your  fondness  for  Mr.  Everett.  A 
charming  gentleman,  I  grant.  But  the  helm  of  state  is 
not  to  be  in  his  hands.  Even,  supposing" — grave  again, 
and  sighing  slightly — "that  they  are  strong  enough  to 
hold  it  in  a  storm." 

There  was  a  boding  pause.  Then  I  spoke,  and  unad- 
visedly : 

"I  ask  no  questions  that  I  think  you  would  not  care  to 
answer.  But  I  do  hope  you  are  not  thinking  of  voting 
for  Abraham  Lincoln  ?  Think  of  him  in  the  White  House ! 
Mr.  Buchanan  may  be  weak — and  a  Democrat.  I  heard 
father  say,  as  the  one  drop  of  comfort  he  could  express 
from  his  election:  'At  any  rate,  he  is  a  gentleman  by 
birth  and  breeding.'  Mr.  Lincoln  is  low-born,  and  has  no 
pretensions  to  breeding." 

"Then,  if  I  should  be  so  far  lost  to  the  proprieties  as  to 
vote  for  him,  I  would  better  not  let  either  of  you  know." 
And  he  glanced  teasingly  at  Alice,  who  had  just  entered 
the  room. 

"  I  could  never  respect  you  if  you  did!"  she  said,  spirited- 
ly.    "I  am  persuaded  better  things  of  you." 

A  teasing  rejoinder  was  all  she  got  out  of  him.  The 
matter  was  never  brought  up  again  by  any  of  us.  When 
Election  Day  came,  I  was  too  proud  to  seem  inquisitive. 
But  in  my  inmost  soul  I  was  assured  that  reticence  boded 
no  good  to  my  hope  of  one  gallant  gentleman's  vote  for 
Bell  and  Everett. 

Months  afterward,  when  we  were  once  again  of  one  mind 
with  respect  to  the  nation's  peril  and  the  nation's  need, 
he  told  me  that  he  had  kept  his  own  counsel,  not  only 
because  the  truth  might  grieve  me,  but  that  party  feeling 

361 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ran  so  high  in  his  church  he  thought  it  best  not  to  intimate 
to  any  one  how  he  meant  to  vote. 

"And,  like  Harry  Percy's  wife,  I  could  be  trusted  not 
to  tell  what  I  did  not  know?"  said  I. 

"  You  might  have  been  catechised/'  he  admitted.  "There 
are  times  when  the  Know-nothing  policy  is  the  safest." 


XXXVII 

THE  PANIC  OF  '61 — A  VIRGINIA  VACATION — MUTTERINGS  OF 
COMING   STORM 

Bayard  Taylor  said  to  me  once  of  a  publishing  house, 
"An  honest  firm,  but  one  that  has  an  incorrigible  habit  of 
failing!" 

The  habit  was  epidemic  in  the  first  half  of  1861.  Among 
others  who  caught  the  trick  were  my  publishers.  Like  a 
thunderbolt  came  the  announcement,  when  I  was  expect- 
ing my  February  semi-annual  remittance  of  fat  royalties: 
"We  regret  to  inform  you  that  we  have  been  compelled 
to  succumb  to  the  stringency  of  the  times." 

The  political  heavens  were  black  with  storm-clouds,  and, 
as  was  inevitable  then,  and  is  now,  the  monetary  market 
shut  its  jaws  tightly  upon  everything  within  reach.  We 
could  not  reasonably  have  expected  immunity,  but  we 
had.  We  had  never  known  the  pinch  of  financial  "diffi- 
culties." Prudent  salaried  men  are  the  last  to  feel  hard 
times,  if  their  wage  is  paid  regularly.  I  had  three  books 
in  the  hands  of  the  " failing "  firm.  All  were  "good  sellers," 
and  I  had  come  to  look  upon  royalties  as  my  husband  re- 
garded his  salary,  as  a  sure  and  certain  source  of  revenue. 

We  had  other  and  what  appeared  to  us  graver  anxieties. 
My  sister  Alice  had  passed  the  winter  with  us,  and  the 
climate  had  told  unhappily  upon  her  throat.  My  husband 
had  not  escaped  injury  from  the  pernicious  sea-fogs  and  the 
malarial  marshes,  over  which  the  breath  of  the  Atlantic 
flowed  in  upon  us.     He  had  a  bronchial  cough  that  defied 

363 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

medical  treatment;  and  March,  the  worst  month  of  the 
twelve  for  tender  throats  and  susceptible  lungs,  would  soon 
be  upon  us.  His  physician,  a  warm  personal  friend,  or- 
dered him  South,  and  the  church  seconded  the  advice  by 
a  formal  grant  of  an  out-of-season  vacation.  We  did  not 
change  our  main  plan  in  consequence  of  the  disappoint- 
ment as  to  funds.  Nor  did  we  noise  our  loss  abroad. 
Somehow,  the  truth  leaked  out.  Not  a  word  of  condolence 
was  breathed  to  us.  But  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  but 
one  before  that  set  for  our  departure,  the  daughter  of  a  neigh- 
borly parishioner  dropped  in  to  leave  a  basket  of  flowers, 
and  to  say  that  her  father  and  mother  "would  like  to  call 
that  evening,  if  we  were  to  be  at  home."  I  answered  that 
we  should  be  glad  to  see  them,  and  notified  my  husband 
of  the  impending  call.  The  expected  couple  appeared  at 
eight  o'clock,  and  b}^  nine  the  parlors  were  thronged  with 
guests  who  "dropped  in,  in  passing,  to  say  'Good-bye.'" 
None  stayed  late,  and  before  any  took  leave,  there  was  the 
presentation  of  a  parcel,  through  the  hands  of  Edgar 
Farmer,  a  member  of  the  Consistory,  who,  in  days  to  come, 
was  to  be  to  my  husband  as  David  to  Jonathan.  He  was 
young  then,  and  of  a  goodly  presence,  with  bright,  kind 
eyes  and  a  happy  gift  of  speech.  Neither  Mr.  Terhune 
nor  I  had  any  misghdngs  of  what  was  in  prospect,  when  he 
was  asked  to  step  forward  and  face  the  spokesman  deputed 
to  wish  us  Bon  voyage  and  recovery  of  health  in  our  old 
home.  Mr.  Farmer  said  this  felicitously,  and  with  genuine 
feeling.  Then  he  asked  the  pastor's  acceptance  of  a  parcel 
"containing  reading-matter  for  the  journey." 

The  reading-matter  was  bank-bills,  the  amount  of  which 
made  us  open  our  eyes  wide  when  the  company  had  dis- 
persed and  we  undid  the  ribbons  binding  the  "literature." 

That  was  their  way  of  doing  things  in  the  "Old  First." 
A  way  they  never  lost.  In  a  dozen-and-a-half  years  we 
should  have  become  used  to  it,  but  we  never  did.     Each 

364 


A    VIRGINIA    VACATION 

new  manifestation  of  the  esteem  in  which  they  held  their 
leader,  and  of  the  royally  generous  spirit  that  interfused 
the  whole  church,  as  it  might  the  body  and  soul  of  one 
man,  remained  to  the  last  a  fresh  and  delicious  surprise. 

Ten  days  out  of  the  six  weeks  of  our  vacation  were 
spent  in  Charlotte.  Mr.  Terhune's  successor  was  Rev. 
Henry  C.  Alexander,  one  of  a  family  of  notable  divines 
whose  praise  is  in  all  the  Presbyterian  churches.  He  was 
a  bachelor,  and  the  "nest  among  the  oaks"  was  rented  to 
an  acquaintance.  I  did  not  enter  it  then,  or  ever  again. 
I  even  looked  the  other  way  when  we  drove  or  walked 
past  the  gate  and  grove.  To  let  this  weakness  be  seen 
would  have  been  ungracious,  in  the  face  of  the  hospitalities 
enlapping  us  during  every  hour  of  our  stay.  We  dined 
with  one  family,  supped  with  another,  spent  the  night  and 
breakfasted  with  a  third,  and  there  was  ever  a  houseful 
of  old  friends  to  meet  us.  My  husband  wrote  to  his 
father: 

"Swinging  around  the  circle  at  a  rate  that  would  turn 
steadier  heads.  And  talk  of  the  fat  of  the  land  and  groaning 
tables!  These  tables  fairly  shriek,  and  the  fat  flows  like  a 
river.  Heaven  send  we  may  live  through  it !  We  like  it,  all 
the  same!" 

And  enjoyed  every  hour,  albeit  senses  less  agreeably 
preoccupied  might  have  detected  the  smell  of  gunpowder 
in  the  air. 

I  am  often  asked  if  we  were  not  uneasy  for  the  safety 
of  the  Union,  while  in  the  thick  of  sectional  wordy  strife, 
and  how  it  was  possible  to  enjoy  visits  when  much  of  the 
talk  must  have  jarred  upon  the  sensibilities  of  loyal  lovers 
of  that  Union. 

The  truth  is  that  I  had  been  used  to  political  wrangling 
from  my  youth  up.  The  fact  that  South  Carolina  and  six 
other  States  had  seceded  in  name  from  the  control  of  the 

365 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Federal  government;  that,  in  every  county  and  "Cross- 
Roads"  hamlet,  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  Chesapeake 
Bay,  bands  of  volunteers  were  drilling  daily  and  nightly, 
and  that  cargoes  of  arms  were  arriving  from  the  North  and 
in  distribution  among  the  enlisted  militiamen;  that  the 
Southern  papers  sounded  the  tocsin  of  war  to  the  death, 
and  "Death  in  the  last  ditch!"  and  "Down  with  the 
Yankees!"  with  every  red-hot  issue;  that  a  convention 
had  been  solemnly  summoned  to  meet  in  Richmond  to 
decide  upon  the  action  of  the  Old  Dominion  at  the  supreme 
moment  of  the  nation's  destiny  —  weighed  marvellously 
little  against  the  settled  conviction,  well-nigh  sublime  in 
its  fatuousness,  that  the  right  must  prevail,  and  that 
such  furious  folly  must  die  ignominiously  before  the 
steadfast  front  maintained  by  the  Union  men  of  the  in- 
fected section. 

To  my  apprehension,  so  much  that  we  heard  was  sheer 
gasconade,  amusing  for  a  time  from  its  very  unreason  and 
illogical  conclusions,  and  often  indicative  of  such  blatant 
ignorance  of  the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  the  Federal 
government,  that  I  failed  to  attach  to  it  the  importance 
the  magnitude  of  the  mischief  deserved  to  have. 

I  refused  stubbornly  to  let  the  clear  joy  of  my  holiday 
be  clouded  by  the  smoke  from  blank  cartridges.  So  light 
was  my  spirit  that  I  made  capital  for  fun  of  bombastic 
threats  and  gloomy  predictions,  touching  the  stabling  of 
Confederate  cavalry  in  Faneuil  Hall  inside  of  three  months 
from  the  day  of  the  inauguration  of  the  "Springfield  Ape" 
at  Washington.  The  Vice  -  President  was  a  full  -  blooded 
negro,  or,  at  the  least,  a  mulatto,  I  was  assured  over  and 
over.  Wasn't  his  name  damning  evidence  of  the  disgrace- 
ful fact  ?  What  white  man  ever  called  his  child  "  Hannibal"  ? 

I  supplied  other  confirmation  to  one  fiery  orator: 

"' Ham-lin'  sounds  suspicious,  too.  I  wonder  you  have 
not  thought  of  the  color  that  gives  to  your  theory." 

366 


MUTTERINGS    OF    COMING    STORM 

The  youth  foamed  at  the  mouth.  He  wore  a  Secession 
cockade  on  his  breast,  and  proved,  to  a  demonstration,  that 
any  Southerner  over  fourteen  years  old  was  equal,  on  the 
battle-field,  to  five  Yankees.  Why  not  seven,  I  could  never 
ascertain. 

Such  funny  things  were  happening  hourly,  and  such  fun- 
nier things  were  said  every  minute,  that  I  was  in  what 
we  used  to  call,  when  I  was  a  child,  "a  continual  gale." 

Let  one  bit  of  nonsense  illustrate  the  frivolity  that,  in  the 
retrospect,  resembles  the  pas  seul  of  a  child  on  the  edge  of 
a  reeking  crater. 

I  was  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  one  forenoon,  to 
receive  a  call  from  the  son  of  an  old  friend  who  had  prom- 
ised his  mother  to  look  me  up,  in  passing  through  the  city 
on  his  way  to  the  "Republic  of  South  Carolina."  That 
was  the  letter-head  of  epistles  received  from  the  Palmetto 
State. 

In  descending  the  stairs,  I  heard  the  scamper  of  small 
boots  over  the  floor  of  the  square,  central  hall,  and  caught 
the  flash  of  golden  curls  through  the  arched  doorway 
leading  into  the  narrower  passage  at  the  rear  of  the  house. 
Knowing  the  infinite  capacity  of  my  son  for  ingenious 
mischief,  I  stayed  my  progress  to  the  parlor,  and  looked 
about  for  some  hint  as  to  the  nature  of  the  present  ad- 
venture. Sofa  and  chairs  were  in  place,  as  was  the  ma- 
hogany table  at  the  far  corner.  On  this  was  a  silver  tray, 
and  on  the  tray  the  pitcher  of  iced  water,  which  was  a 
fixture  the  year  through.  Two  tumblers  flanked  it  on  one 
side,  and  my  visitor  had  set  on  the  other  the  sleekest  tall 
silk  hat  I  had  ever  seen  outside  of  a  shop  window.  There 
was  absolutely  no  rational  association  of  ideas  between  the 
iced  water-pitcher  and  that  stunning  specimen  of  head- 
gear. Yet  I  glanced  into  the  depths  of  both.  One  was 
half-full;  the  other  was  empty.  Clutching  the  desecrated 
hat  wildly,   I  sped  to  the  sitting-room.     "Oh,   mother, 

367 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

what  is  to  be  done?  Eddie  has  emptied  the  water-pitcher 
into  William  M.'s  hat!" 

Whereupon,  that  gentlest,  yet  finest,  of  disciplinarians, 
who  would  have  sent  one  of  her  own  bairns  to  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  for  an  offence  one-tenth  as  flagrant, 
dropped  her  sewing  on  her  lap  and  went  off  into  a  speech- 
less convulsion  of  laughter.  A  chuckle  of  intense  delight 
from  behind  her  rocking-chair,  and  a  glimpse  of  dancing 
blue  eyes  under  her  elbow,  put  the  finishing  touches  to  a 
scene  so  discreditable  to  grandmotherly  ideas  of  domestic 
management,  that  the  family  refused  to  believe  the  story 
told  at  the  supper-table,  when  the  culprit  was  safe  in  his  crib. 

Leaving  the  dishonored  "tile"  to  the  merciful  manipu- 
lations of  the  laundress,  who  begged  me  to  "keep  the  pore 
young  gentleman  a-talkin'  'tell  she  could  dry  it  at  the 
fire,"  I  went  to  meet  the  unsuspecting  victim. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  keep  him  talking,  when  once  he 
was  launched  upon  the  topic  paramount  in  the  mind  of 
what  he  denominated  as  "every  truly  loyal  and  chivalrous 
Son  of  the  South."  He  had  a  plan  of  campaign  so  well 
concerted  and  so  thoroughly  digested,  that  it  could  have 
but  one  culmination. 

"  But  why  Faneuil  Hall  ?"  I  demurred,  plaintively.  "  You 
are  the  sixth  man  who  has  informed  me  that  your  cavalry  are 
to  tie  and  feed  their  horses  there.  Why  not  the  City  Hall 
in  New  York  ?    There  must  be  stable-room  short  of  Boston." 

He  flushed  brick-red. 

"It  is  no  laughing  matter  to  us  who  have  been  ground 
down  so  long  under  the  iron  heels  of  Yankee  mud-sills!" 

I  found  his  mixed  metaphors  so  diverting  that  I  was 
near  forgetting  the  ruined  head-piece,  and  the  inexorable 
necessity  of  confession. 

Sobering  under  the  thought,  I  let  him  go  on,  lending  but 
half  an  ear,  yet,  in  seeming,  bowed  by  the  weight  of  his  dis- 
course.   Moved  by  my  mournful  silence,  he  stopped  midway. 

368 


MUTTER1NGS  OF  COMING  STORM 

"I  beg  your  pardon  if  my  feelings  and  patriotism  have 
carried  me  too  far.     I  own  that  I  am  hot-headed — " 

Another  such  chance  would  not  come  in  a  life-time.  I 
broke  his  sentence  short. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  to  know  that!  For  my  boy  has  filled 
your  hat  with  iced  water!" 

Eheu!  That  night's  supper  was  the  last  merry  meal 
the  old  home  was  to  know  for  many  a  long  month  and 
year.  For,  by  breakfast-time  next  clay,  the  news  had 
come  of  the  bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter,  and  men's 
hearts  were  hot  within  them,  and  women's  hearts  were 
failing  them  for  fear  of  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death 
to  sons,  husbands,  and  brothers. 

One  might  have  fancied  that  a  visible  pall  hung  over 
the  city,  so  universal  and  deep  was  the  agony  of  suspense. 

While  the  recollection  of  suspense  and  agony  was  fresh 
in  my  mind,  I  wrote  of  the  awful  awakening  from  my 
fool's  paradise  of  incredulity  and  levity: 

"For  two  days,  the  air  was  thick  with  rumors  of  war 
and  bloodshed.  For  two  days,  the  eyes  and  thoughts  of 
the  nation  were  fixed  upon  that  fire-girt  Southern  island, 
with  its  brave  but  feeble  garrison — the  representative  of 
that  nation's  majesty — testifying,  in  the  defiant  boom  of 
every  cannon's  answer  to  the  rebel  bombardment,  that 
resistance  to  armed  treason  is  henceforward  to  be  learned 
as  one  of  the  nation's  laws.  For  two  days,  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  loyal  hearts  all  over  this  broad 
land,  cried  mightily  unto  our  country's  God  to  avert  this 
last  and  direst  trial — the  humiliation  of  our  Flag  by  hands 
that  once  helped  to  rear  it  in  the  sight  of  the  world,  as  the 
ensign  of  national  faith.  And  under  the  whole  expanse 
of  heaven,  there  was  no  answer  to  those  prayers,  except 
the  reverberation  of  the  cruel  guns. 

"On  Saturday,  April  14th,  the  End  came!" 


XXXVIII 

THE   FOURTEENTH   OF   APRIL,    1861,    IN   RICHMOND 

We  had  planned  to  leave  Richmond  for  home  on  Tues- 
day afternoon.  At  noon  on  Saturday,  my  husband  asked 
me  if  I  would  not  like  to  prolong  my  stay  with  my  rela- 
tives, adding  significantly: 

"We  do  not  know  how  long  it  may  be  before  you  can 
get  South  again.     There  is  thunder  in  the  air." 

I  looked  up  from  the  letter  I  was  writing  to  Newark : 

"Thunder — alone — is  harmless.  I  take  no  stock  in  gas- 
conade that  is  only  thunder.  And  if  trouble  is  coming, 
it  is  clear  that  our  place  is  not  here." 

The  letter- writing  went  on  not  uncheerfully.  Far  down 
in  my  soul  was  the  belief  that  a  peaceful  issue  must  be  in 
store  for  the  land  beloved  of  the  Lord.  Were  we  not 
brethren?  When  brought,  face  to  face,  with  the  fact  that 
brothers'  hands  must  be  dipped  in  brothers'  blood,  re- 
action was  inevitable. 

So  foolish  was  I,  and  ignorant  of  the  excesses  to  which 
sectional  fury  can  carry  individuals  and  nations. 

I  was  in  my  room,  getting  ready  for  our  last  walk  among 
scenes  endeared  to  us  by  thousands  of  associations,  my 
husband  standing  by,  hat  in  hand,  when  a  terrific  report 
split  the  brooding  air  and  rent  the  very  heavens.  Another 
and  another  followed.  We  stood  transfixed,  without 
motion  or  speech,  until  we  counted,  silently,  seven. 

It  was  the  number  of  the  seceding  States!  As  if  pan- 
demonium had  waited  for  the  seventh  boom  to  die  sullenly 

370 


THE    FOURTEENTH  OF  APRIL,   1861 

away  among  the  hills,  the  pause  succeeding  the  echo  was 
ended  by  an  outburst  of  yells,  cheers,  and  screams  that 
beggars  description.  The  streets  in  our  quiet  quarter 
were  alive  with  men,  women,  and  children.  Fire-crackers, 
pistols,  and  guns  were  discharged  into  the  throbbing  air. 

"The  fort  has  fallen!"  broke  in  one  breath  from  our  lips. 
And  simultaneously:  "The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  the 
country!" 

We  ran  down-stairs  and  into  the  street. 

My  sister  "Mea"  was  upon  the  front  porch,  and  the  steps 
were  thronged  by  children  and  servants,  wild  with  curiosity. 

I  have  not  mentioned  that  my  sister  had  married,  two 
years  before,  Mr.  John  Miller,  a  Scotchman  by  birth.  He 
was  much  liked  and  respected  by  us  all,  and  it  spoke 
volumes  for  his  breeding  and  the  genuine  good  feeling 
prevailing  among  us,  that  although  he  was  the  only 
"original  secessionist"  in  our  household  band,  our  cordial 
relations  remained  unbroken  in  spite  of  the  many  political 
arguments  we  had  had  with  him. 

His  wife  was  holding  aloft  her  baby  boy,  a  pretty  year- 
old,  in  her  arms.  A  Secession  cockade  was  pinned  upon 
his  breast;  in  his  chubby  hand  he  flourished  a  rebel  flag, 
and  he  laughed  down  into  her  radiant  face. 

We  feigned  not  to  see  them  as  we  hurried  past.  But 
a  gulf  seemed  to  open  at  my  feet.  As  in  a  baleful  dream, 
I  comprehended,  in  the  sick  whirl  of  conflicting  sensations, 
what  Rebellion,  active  and  in  arms,  would  mean  in  hun- 
dreds of  homes  on  both  sides  of  the  border. 

"Is  the  world  going  mad?"  muttered  my  husband,  be- 
tween his  teeth,  and  I  knew  that  the  same  horror  was 
present  with  him. 

Secession  flags  blossomed  in  windows  and  from  roofs; 

were  waved  from  doors  and  porches  by  girls  and  women; 

were  shaken  in  mad  exultation  by  boys  on  the  sidewalks; 

hung  upon  lamp-posts,  and  were  stretched  from  side  to 

25  371 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

side  of  the  street.  It  was  like  the  magical  upspringing  of 
baneful  fungi.  Where  had  they  all  come  from?  And  at 
what  infernal  behest  had  they  leaped  into  being? 

The  living  stream  poured  toward  the  Capitol  Square, 
and  it  swept  us  with  it.  The  grounds  were  filled  with  a 
tumultuous  crowd.  Upon  the  southern  terrace  was  the 
park  of  artillery  that  had  fired  the  salute  of  seven  guns. 
As  we  entered  the  upper  gate  a  long  procession  of  men 
issued  from  the  western  door  of  the  Capitol,  and  descended 
the  steps. 

"The  convention  has  adjourned  for  the  day/'  remarked 
Mr.  Terhune.  We  were  at  the  base  of  the  Washington 
monument,  and  he  drew  me  up  on  the  lower  step  of  the 
base  to  avoid  the  press. 

The  delegates  streamed  by  us  in  groups;  some  striding 
in  excited  haste;  talking  gleefully,  and  gesticulating  wildly. 
Others  were  grave  and  slow,  silent,  or  deep  in  low-toned 
conversation;  others  yet — and  these  were  marked  men 
already — walked  with  bent  heads,  and  faces  set  in  wordless 
sadness.  One  of  these,  recognizing  Mr.  Terhune,  approached 
us,  and  with  a  brief  apology  to  me,  drew  him  a  few  paces 
apart. 

Three  years  before,  I  had  seen  the  ceremonies  by  which 
this  monument — Crawford's  finest  work  in  marble — was 
uncovered  and  dedicated.  On  the  next  day,  Mr.  Everett 
had  repeated  his  oration  on  Washington  in  the  Richmond 
theatre.  The  silver-tongued  orator  had  joined  hands,  then 
and  there,  with  Tyler,  Wise,  and  Yancey,  in  proclaiming  the 
unity  of  the  nation.  General  Scott  had  sat  in  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  like  a  hoary  keystone  in  the  semi-circle  of 
honorable  men  and  counsellors. 

Was  it  all  a  farce,  even  then,  this  talk  of  brotherhood  and 
patriotism?  And  of  what  avail  were  wisdom  and  diplo- 
macy and  the  multitude  of  counsels,  if  this  were  to  be  the 
end? 

372 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  APRIL,   1861 

I  was  saying  it  to  myself  in  disgustful  bewilderment, 
when  the  crowd  cheered  itself  mad  over  a  fresh  demon- 
stration of  popular  passion.  The  rebel  flag  had  been  run 
up  from  the  peak  of  the  Capitol  roof! 

My  husband  came  back  to  me  instantly.  He  was  pale, 
and  the  lines  of  his  mouth  were  tense. 

"Let  us  get  out  of  this!"  he  said.     "I  cannot  breathe!" 

On  the  way  to  Gamble's  Hill — a  long-loved  walk  with 
us — I  heard  how  Sumter  had  fallen.  We  were  not  hope- 
less, yet,  as  to  the  final  outcome  of  the  tragical  complica- 
tion that  had  turned  the  heads  of  the  populace.  The  out- 
rage offered  the  Flag  of  our  common  country  must  open 
the  eyes  of  true  men,  and  all  who  had  one  spark  of  pa- 
triotism left  in  their  souls.  We  could  have  no  longer  any 
doubt  as  to  the  real  animus  of  the  Rebellion.  One  thing 
was  certain:  To-day's  work  would  decide  the  question 
for  Virginia.     She  could  not  hang  back  now. 

Thus  reasoning,  we  took  our  last  look  of  the  lovely 
panorama  of  river,  islets,  and  hills ;  of  the  city  of  the  dead 
—beautiful  in  wooded  heights  and  streams  and  peaceful 
valleys,  on  our  right— while  on  the  left  was  the  city  of  the 
living,  noble  and  fair,  and,  in  the  distance,  now  as  silent 
as  Hollywood. 

My  companion  lifted  his  arm  abruptly  and  pointed  north- 
ward. 

A  long,  low  line  of  cloud  hung  on  the  horizon — dun, 
with  brassy  edges — sullen  and  dense,  save  where  a  rain- 
bow, vivid  with  emerald,  rose-color,  and  gold,  spanned  the 
murky  vapor. 

"Fair  weather  cometh  out  of  the  North,"  uttered  the 
resolute  optimist.  "With  the  Lord  is  terrible  majesty. 
After  all,  He  is  omnipotent.     We  will  hope  on!" 

We  were  measurably  cheered  on  our  way  back  to  the 
heart  of  the  city  by  the  sight  of  the  Flag  of  Virginia  flying 
serenely  from  the  staff  where  had  flaunted  the  Stars  and 

373 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Bars,  an  hour  ago.  At  supper,  my  father  related  with 
gusto  how  a  deputation  of  Secessionists  had  waited  on 
the  Governor  to  offer  congratulations  upon  the  Confeder- 
ate victory.  How  he  had  received  them  but  sourly,  being, 
as  the  deputation  should  have  known,  an  "inveterate 
Unionist."  When  felicitated  upon  the  result  of  the  siege, 
he  returned  that  he  "did  not  consider  it  a  matter  for  any 
compliments."  At  that  instant  he  caught  sight  of  the 
flag  hoisted  to  the  roof  of  the  Capitol,  demanded  by  whose 
order  it  was  done,  and  straightway  commanded  it  to  be 
hauled  down  and  the  State  flag,  usually  sported  when 
the  Legislature  was  in  session,  to  be  run  up  in  its 
stead. 

"Governor  Letcher  has  a  rough  tongue  when  he  chooses 
to  use  it,"  commented  my  father.  "He  is  honest,  through 
and  through." 

The  talk  of  the  evening  could  run  in  but  one  channel. 
Our  nerves  were  keyed  up  to  the  highest  tension,  and  the 
day's  events  had  gone  deep  into  mind  and  heart.  Two  or 
three  visitors  dropped  in,  and  both  sides  of  the  Great 
Controversy  were  brought  forward,  temperately,  but  with 
force  born  of  conviction.  If  I  go  somewhat  into  the  de- 
tails of  the  conversation,  it  is  because  I  would  make  clear 
the  truth  that  each  party  in  the  struggle  we  feared  might 
be  imminent,  believed  honestly  that  justice  and  right  were 
at  the  foundation  of  his  faith.  I  wrote  down  the  substance 
of  the  memorable  discussion,  as  I  recorded  and  published 
other  incidents  of  the  ever-to-be-remembered  era,  while 
the  history  of  it  was  still  in  the  making.  I  am,  then,  sure 
that  I  give  the  story  correctly. 

John  Miller  opened  the  ball  by  "hoping  that  the  North 
was  now  convinced  that  the  South  was  in  earnest  in 
maintaining  her  rights." 

I  liked  my  Scotch  brother-in-law,  and  we  bandied  jests 
safely  and  often.     But  it  irked  me  that  we  should  have  a 

374 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  APRIL,   1861 

Secessionist  in  a  loyal  family,  and  I  retorted  flippantly, 
lest  I  should  betray  the  underlying  feeling: 

"There  has  been  no  madness  equal  to  Secession  since  the 
swine  ran  violently  down  a  steep  place  into  the  sea.  The 
choking  in  the  waves  will  come  later." 

"Let  wise  men  stand  from  under!"  he  retorted,  smiling 
good-humoredly.  "As  to  the  choking,  that  may  not  be 
such  an  easy  job  as  you  think." 

A  visitor  took  up  the  word,  and  seriously : 

"The  dissatisfaction  of  the  South  is  no  new  thing.  It 
is  as  old  as  the  Constitution  itself.  John  Randolph  said  of 
it:  'I  saw  what  Washington  did  not  see.  Two  other  men 
in  Virginia  saw  it — the  poison  under  its  wings.'  Grayson, 
another  far-sighted  statesman,  prophesied  just  what  has 
come  to  pass.  He  said  of  the  consolidation  policy  taught 
in  the  Constitution:  'It  will,  in  operation,  be  found  un- 
equal, grievous,  and  oppressive.'  He  foresaw  that  the 
manufacturer  of  the  North  would  dominate  the  agri- 
culturist of  the  South;  that  there  would  be  burdensome 
taxation  without  adequate  representation;  in  short,  that 
there  would  be  numberless  encroachments  of  the  North 
upon  the  prerogatives  of  the  Southern  slaveholder." 

"He  said  nothing  of  the  manifest  injustice  in  a  republic, 
of  the  election  of  a  candidate  by  the  votes  of  a  petty  fac- 
tion, dominant  for  the  time,  because  the  other  party  split 
and  ran  several  men?" 

This  was  said  by  a  young  man  who  had  not  spoken  until 
then. 

My  father  replied:  "Suppose  Breckenridge  had  been 
elected?     Would  that  have  been  the  triumph  of  a  faction?" 

"Circumstances  alter  cases,"  said  my  brother  Horace, 
dryly. 

Everybody  laughed,  except  the  man  who  had  quoted 
Grayson  and  Randolph. 

"It  is  not  easy  for  the  Mother  of  Presidents  to  submit 

375 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

to  the  rule  of  those  whom,  as  Job  says,  they  would  have 
scorned  to  put  with  their  cattle,"  he  said,  with  temper. 

I  saw  the  blue  fire  in  my  husband's  eyes  before  he 
spoke ;  but  his  voice  was  even  and  full ;  every  sentence  was 
studiedly  calm. 

"For  more  than  seventy  years,  the  South  has  prospered 
under  the  Constitution,  which,  according  to  the  renowned 
authorities  cited  just  now,  had  poison  under  its  wings. 
Hers  have  been  the  chief  places  in  our  national  councils, 
and  the  most  lucrative  offices  in  the  gift  of  the  government. 
It  is  her  boast,  if  we  are  to  believe  what  this  one  of  your 
leading  papers  says" — unfolding  and  reading  from  the 
editorial  page — "that  'since  the  organization  of  the  Union, 
she  has  held  the  balance  of  power — as  it  is  her  right  to  do — 
her  citizens  being  socially,  morally,  and  intellectually, 
superior  to  those  of  the  North.'" 

My  father  filliped  his  cigar  ash  into  the  fire. 

"Now  you  are  improvising?" 

"Not  a  word!  Our  editor  goes  on  to  say  further:  'Our 
whilom  servants  have  lately  strangely  forgotten  their 
places.  They  now  aspire  to  an  equal  share  in  the  admin- 
istration of  the  government.  They  have  presumed  to  elect 
from  their  own  ranks  an  illiterate,  base-born,  sectional 
tool,  whom  they  rely  upon  to  do  their  foul  work  of  sub- 
verting our  sovereignty.  It  is  high  time  the  real  masters 
awoke  from  their  fatal  lethargy,  and  forced  their  insub- 
ordinate hinds  to  stand  once  more,  cap  in  hand,  at  their 
behest.' " 

The  stump  of  my  father's  cigar  followed  the  ash. 

"Come,  come,  my  dear  boy!  it  isn't  fair  to  take  the 
ravings  of  one  fool  as  the  sentiment  of  the  section  in  which 
that  stuff  is  printed.  I  could  quote  talk,  as  intemperate 
and  incendiary,  from  your  Northern  papers.  You  wouldn't 
have  us  suppose  that  you  and  other  sane  voters  indorse 
them?" 

376 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  APRIL,  1861 

"  I  grant  what  you  say,  sir.  And,  as  I  long  ago  affirmed, 
the  shortest  and  best  way  to  put  out  the  fire  that  threatens 
the  integrity  of  the  government,  would  be  to  muzzle  every 
political  ranter  in  the  country,  and  suppress  every  news- 
paper for  six  months.  The  conflagration  would  die  for 
want  of  fuel." 

My  mother  interposed  here: 

"Good  people,  don't  you  think  there  is  'somewhat  too 
much  of  this'  ?  I,  for  one,  refuse  to  believe  that  anything 
but  smoke  will  come  of  the  alarm  that  is  frightening 
weak  brothers  out  of  their  wits.  The  good  Ship  of  State 
will  'sail  on,  strong  and  great,'  when  our  children's  children 
are  in  their  graves." 

She  changed  the  current  of  talk,  but  not  of  thought. 
After  the  rest  had  gone,  there  lingered  a  young  fellow 
whose  case  was  so  striking  an  example  of  a  host  of  others, 
who  were  forced  into  the  forefront  of  the  battle,  that  I 
take  leave  to  relate  it. 

He  still  lives,  an  honored  citizen  of  the  State  he  loved 
as  a  son  loves  the  mother  who  bore  and  nursed  him.  There- 
fore I  shall  not  use  his  real  name.  Eric  S.,  as  I  shall  call 
him,  was  an  intimate  friend  of  my  brother  Herbert,  and 
as  much  at  home  in  our  house  as  if  he  were,  in  very  deed, 
one  of  the  blood  and  name.  He  had  visited  us  in  Newark, 
and  made  warm  friends  there,  during  the  past  year.  Mr. 
Terhune  had  had  long  and  serious  consultations  with  him 
since  we  came  to  Virginia,  and,  within  a  few  days,  as  the 
war-cloud  took  form,  had  urged  him  to  accompany  us  to 
New  Jersey,  or,  at  least,  to  promise  to  come  to  us  should 
hostilities  actually  begin  between  the  two  sections.  The 
lad  (scarcely  twenty-one)  was  an  ardent  Unionist,  and,  al- 
though a  member  of  a  crack  volunteer  company  in  Rich- 
mond, had  declared  to  us  that  nothing  would  ever  induce 
him  to  bear  arms  under  the  Rebel  government.  Mea  and 
her  spouse  went  up-stairs  early,  and  the  rest  of  us  were  in 

377 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

hearty  sympathy  with  our  guest.  He  had  not  taken  an 
active  share  in  the  discussion,  and  his  distrait  manner  and 
sober  face  prepared  us,  in  part,  for  the  disclosure  that  fol- 
lowed the  departure  of  the  others. 

He  had  been  credibly  and  confidentially  informed  that 
a  mighty  pressure  would  be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  con- 
vention, at  their  next  sitting,  to  force  the  Ordinance  of 
Secession.  If  it  were  carried,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  every 
man  who  could  bear  arms  would  be  called  into  the  field. 

While  he  talked,  the  boy  stood  against  the  mantel — 
erect,  lithe,  and  handsome  —  the  typical  mother's  and 
sister's  darling,  yet  manly  in  every  look  and  lineament. 
The  thought  tore  through  my  imagination  while  I  looked 
at  him: 

"And  it  is  material  like  this  that  will  go  to  feed  the 
maw  of  War! — such  flesh  and  blood  as  his  that  will  be 
mangled  by  bullet  and  shell!" 

I  had  never  had  the  ghastly  reality  brought  so  near  to 
me  until  that  moment. 

"Oh-h!"  I  shuddered.  "You  won't  stay  to  be  shot  at 
like  a  mad  dog!" 

The  first  bright  smile  that  had  lighted  his  face  was  on  it. 
"It  isn't  being  shot  at  that  I  am  thinking  of."  The  gleam 
faded  suddenly.  "I  don't  think  I  am  a  coward.  It 
doesn't  run  in  the  blood.  But" — flinging  out  his  arm  with 
a  passionate  gesture  that  said  more  than  his  words — "I 
think  that  would  be  paralyzed  if  I  were  to  lift  it  against  the 
dear  old  flag!" 

Before  he  left  it  was  agreed  privately,  between  him  and 
my  husband,  that  he  would  try  his  fortune  on  the  other 
side  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  should  the  axe  fall  that 
would  sever  Virginia  from  the  Union  her  sons  had  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  creating. 

Sunday  came  and  went.  Such  a  strange,  sad  Sunday 
as  it  was!  with  the  marked  omission,  in  every  pulpit,  of 

378 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  APRIL,   1861 

the  prayer  for  the  President  of  the  United  States  and  others 
in  authority;  with  scanty  congregations  in  the  churches, 
and  growing  throngs  of  excited  talkers  at  the  street  corners, 
and  knots  of  dark-browed  men  in  hotel  lobbies,  and  the 
porches  of  private  houses. 

In  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  town  but  one  Union 
flag  was  visible.  Nicholas  Mills,  a  wealthy  citizen  of  high 
character  and  fearless  temper,  defied  public  opinion  and 
risked  popular  wrath,  by  keeping  a  superb  flag  flying  at 
the  head  of  a  tall  staff  in  his  garden  on  Leigh  Street.  We 
went  out  of  our  way,  in  returning  from  afternoon  service, 
to  refresh  eyes  and  spirits  with  the  sight. 

On  Monday,  the  muttcrings  of  rebellion  waxed  into  a 
roar  of  angry  revolt  over  the  published  proclamation  of 
the  President,  calling  for  an  army  of  seventy-five  thousand 
men  to  quell  the  insurrection.  The  quota  from  Virginia 
was,  I  think,  five  thousand. 

"A  fatal  blunder!"  said  my  father,  in  stern  disapproval. 

My  husband's  answer  was  prompt: 

"To  omit  her  name  from  the  roll  would  be  an  accusation 
of  disloyalty." 

The  senior  shook  his  head. 

"It  may  have  been  a  choice  of  evils.  I  hope  he  has 
chosen  the  less !    But  I  doubt  it!     I  doubt  it!" 

So  might  Eli  have  looked  and  spoken  when  his  heart 
trembled  for  the  ark  of  the  Lord. 

That  afternoon,  the  flagstaff  in  the  Mills  garden  was 
empty.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  were  banned  as  an  unholy 
ensign. 

Eric  S.  paid  us  a  flying  visit  that  evening.  His  parents 
urged  his  going.  The  father  was  especially  anxious  that 
he  should  not  risk  the  probability  of  impressment,  and, 
should  he  refuse  to  serve,  of  imprisonment.  Already  Union 
men  were  regarded  with  suspicion.  The  exodus  of  the  dis- 
affected could  not  be  long  delayed.     He  had  influential 

379 


MARION  HARLAND'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

family  connections  at  the  North  who  would  see  to  it  that 
he  found  occupation.  When  we  parted  that  night,  it  was 
with  a  definite  understanding  that  he  would  be  our  travel- 
ling companion. 

Tuesday  noon,  he  appeared,  haggard  and  well-nigh  des- 
perate. Going,  like  the  honorable  gentleman  he  was,  to 
the  Colonel  of  his  regiment  early  in  the  day,  to  tender 
his  resignation  and  declare  his  intentions,  lie  was  stricken 
by  the  news  that  the  State  had  seceded  in  secret  session 
Monday  night. 

Whereupon  the  Colonel  had  offered  the  services  of  his 
regiment  to  the  authorities  of  the  Confederate  States. 
They  were  accepted. 

"You  are  now  in  the  Confederate  army,"  added  the 
superior  officer,  "and,  from  present  indications,  we  will 
not  be  idle  long." 

"But,"  stammered  the  stunned  subaltern,  "I  am  going 
North  this  very  afternoon  with  friends,  and  I  shall  not 
consent  to  serve." 

"If  you  attempt  to  leave,  you  will  be  reckoned  as  a 
deserter  from  the  regular  army,  and  dealt  with  accord- 
ingly." 

I  do  not  attempt  to  estimate  what  proportion  of  men, 
who  would  have  remained  loyal  to  flag  and  government 
if  they  could,  were  coerced,  or  cajoled,  into  bearing  arms 
under  a  government  they  abhorred.  I  tell  the  plain  facts 
in  the  instance  before  me. 

Eric  S.  fought  in  fifteen  general  engagements,  and  came 
out  with  his  life  when  the  cruel  war  was  over.  He  told 
with  deep  satisfaction,  in  after-years,  that  he  had  never 
worn  the  Confederate  uniform,  but  always  that  of  his  own 
regiment. 

It  is  easy  for  us  to  prate,  at  this  distance  from  those  times 
of  trial  to  brave  men's  souls,  of  the  high  and  sacred  duty 
of  living  and,  if  need  be,  of  dying  for  the  right.      From  our 

3S0 


THE    FOURTEENTH    OF    APRIL,    1861 

standpoint,  it  is  as  clear  as  the  noonday  sun,  that  allegiance 
to  the  general  government  should  outrank  allegiance  to  the 
State  in  which  one  has  chanced  to  be  born  and  to  live. 
We  have  had  an  awful  object-lesson  in  the  study  of  that 
creed  since  the  day  when  the  Virginian,  who  saw  his  native 
State  invaded,  believed  that  he  had  no  alternative  but  to 
"strike  for  his  altars  and  his  fires." 

Upon  the  gallant  fellows  who,  seeing  this,  and  no  further, 
risked  their  lives  unto  the  death,  fell  the  penalty  of  the 
demagogues'  sin. 

We  may  surely  lay  the  blame  where  it  belongs. 


XXXIX 

"the  last  through  train  for  four  years" 

I  copy  in  substance,  and  sometimes  verbatim,  the  ac- 
count written  in  1861,  and  published  later,  of  our  journey 
northward  in  the  last  train  that  went  through  to  Wash- 
ington before  the  outbreak  of  hostilities. 

I  preface  the  narrative  by  saying  that,  by  the  merciful 
provision  of  the  Divine  Father,  Who  will  not  try  us  beyond 
our  strength,  we,  one  and  all,  kept  up  to  our  own  hearts 
the  sanguine  incredulity  in  the  possibility  of  the  worst 
coining  to  pass,  which  was  characteristic  of  Union  lovers 
at  the  South,  up  to  the  battle  of  Manassas. 

After  that,  the  scales  fell  from  all  eyes.  Had  not  my 
mother  hoped  confidently  that  the  war-cloud  would  blow 
over,  and  that,  before  long,  she  would  not  have  allowed 
Alice  to  go  back  to  Newark  with  us?  My  place  was  with 
my  husband,  but  this  young  daughter  she  had  the  right 
to  keep  with  her. 

Had  I  not  hoped  for  a  peaceful  solution  of  the  national 
problem,  if  only  through  the  awakening  of  the  fraternal  love 
of  those  whose  fathers  had  fought,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  to 
wrest  their  country  from  a  common  oppressor,  I  could  not 
have  said  "Good -bye"  smilingly  to  home  and  kindred. 
When  I  said  to  my  mother:  "We  shall  have  you  with  us 
at  the  seashore,  this  summer,"  it  was  not  in  bravado,  to 
cheat  her  into  belief  in  my  cheerfulness. 

Our  party  of  Mr.  Terhune,  Alice,  our  boy  and  baby 
Christine,  with  their  nurse  and  myself,  was  comfortably 

382 


"LAST  THROUGH  TRAIN  FOR   FOUR    YEARS" 

bestowed  in  the  train  that  was  to  meet  the  boat  at  Acquia 
Creek.  Luggage  and  luncheon  were  looked  after  as  sed- 
ulously as  if  there  were  no  superior  interest  in  our  minds. 
The  very  commonplaceness  of  the  details  of  getting  ready 
and  sending  us  off,  exactly  as  had  been  done,  time  and 
time  again,  were  in  themselves  heartening.  What  had  been, 
would  be.     To-morrow  should  be  as  to-day. 

When  we  and  our  appurtenances  were  comfortably  be- 
stowed in  the  ladies'  car  (there  were  no  parlor  cars  or 
sleepers,  as  yet),  I  had  leisure  to  note  what  was  passing 
without.  The  scene  should  be  that  which  always  attends 
the  departure  of  a  passenger  train  from  a  provincial  city. 
Yet  I  felt,  at  once,  that  there  was  a  difference. 

I  noticed,  and  not  without  an  undefined  sense  of  un- 
easiness, the  unusual  number  of  strollers  that  lounged  up 
and  down  the  sidewalks,  and  loitered  about  the  train,  and 
that  some  of  these  were  evidently  listening  to  the  guarded 
subtones  to  which  the  voices  of  all — even  the  rudest  of 
the  loungers — were  modulated.  With  this  shade  of  uneasi- 
ness there  stole  upon  me  a  strange,  indescribable  sense  of 
the  unreality  of  all  that  I  saw  and  heard.  The  familiar 
streets  and  houses  were  seen,  as  through  the  bewildering 
vapors  of  a  dream;  men  and  women  glided  by  like  phan- 
toms, and  there  was  a  shimmer  of  red-and-orange  light  in 
the  air — the  reflection  of  the  glowing  west — that  was  vague 
and  dazing,  not  dazzling. 

The  train  slid  away  from  the  station.  My  father  and 
my  brother  Horace  lifted  their  hats  to  us  from  the  pave- 
ment; we  held  the  children  up  to  the  open  window  to 
kiss  their  hands  to  them;  I  leaned  forward  for  one  last, 
fond  look  into  the  dear  eyes,  and  our  journey  had 
begun. 

Not  a  word  was  exchanged  between  the  members  of  our 
party,  while  we  rumbled  slowly  up  Broad  Street  toward 
the  open  country. 

383 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  was  unaccountably  indisposed  to  talk,  and  this  feeling 
seemed  to  pervade  the  company  of  passengers.  The  dreamy 
haze  enveloped  me  again.  The  car  was  very  full  and  very 
quiet.  The  languorous  hues  of  the  west  swooned  into  twi- 
light, and  here  and  there  a  star  peeped  through  the  gray 
veil  of  the  sky. 

We  had  cleared  the  city  limits,  and  the  blending  of  day- 
light and  the  falling  darkness  were  most  confusing  to  the 
eye,  when  I  became  aware  that  the  train  was  slowing  up 
where  there  was  no  sign  of  a  switch  or  "turn-out."  If  it 
actually  halted,  it  was  but  for  a  second,  just  long  enough 
to  enable  two  men,  standing  close  to  the  track,  to  board 
the  train.  They  entered  our  car,  and  my  husband  pressed 
my  arm  as  they  passed  down  the  aisle  to  seats  diagonally 
opposite  to  us. 

Under  cover  of  the  rattle  and  roar  of  the  speeding 
train,  he  told  me  presently — after  cautioning  me  not  to 
glance  in  their  direction  —  that  they  were  Messrs.  Carlisle 
and  Dent  —  well  known  to  visitors  to  the  convention 
as  most  prominent  among  the  leaders  of  the  Union 
party. 

On  through  the  gathering  gloom  rolled  the  ponderous 
train — the  only  moving  thing  abroad,  on  that  enchanted 
night.  Within  it  there  was  none  of  the  hum  of  social 
intercourse  one  might  have  expected  in  the  circumstances. 
Adult  passengers  were  not  drowsy,  for  every  figure  was  up- 
right, and  the  few  faces,  dimly  visible  in  the  low  light  of 
the  lamps  overhead,  were  wakeful — one  might  have  im- 
agined, watchful.  I  learned  subsequently  that  the  in- 
sufficient light  was  purposely  contrived  by  conductor  and 
brakemen,  and  why.  But  for  the  touch  of  my  husband's 
hand,  laid  in  sympathy  or  reassurance  upon  mine,  and  the 
sight  of  my  babies,  sleeping  peacefully  —  one  in  the 
nurse's  arms,  the  other  on  the  seat  beside  her,  his  head  in 
her  lap — I  might  have  believed  the  weird  light  within,  the 

384 


"LAST  THROUGH  TRAIN    FOR   FOUR  YEARS" 

darkness  without,  and  the  motionless  shapes  and  saddened 
faces  about  me,  accessories  to  the  fantasy  that  gained 
steadily  upon  me. 

The  spell  was  broken  rudely — terribly — at  Fredericks- 
burg. We  steamed  right  into  the  heart  of  a  crowd,  assem- 
bled to  await  the  arrival  of  the  train,  which  halted  there 
for  wood  and  water.  It  was  a  tumultuous  throng,  and 
evidently  drawn  thither  with  a  purpose  understood  by 
all.  The  babel  of  emeries  and  exclamations  smote  the 
breezeless  night-air  like  a  hail-storm.  It  was  apparent 
that  the  railway  officials  returned  curt  and  unsatisfactory 
replies,  for  the  noise  gathered  volume,  and  uncompliment- 
ary expletives  flew  freely.  All  at  once,  a  rush  was  made  in 
the  direction  of  the  ladies'  car.  Eager  and  angry  visages, 
dusky  in  shadow,  or  ruddied  by  torch-light,  were  pressed 
against  closed  windows,  and  thrust  impudently  into  the 
few  that  were  open. 

" Three  cheers  for  the  Southern  Confederacy!"  yelled 
stentorian  tones. 

Three-times-three  roars  of  triumph  deafened  us. 

"Three  cheers  for  Jefferson  Davis — the  savior  of  South- 
ern liberties!"  shouted  the  fugleman. 

Again  a  burst  of  frenzied  acclamation  that  made  the 
windows  rattle. 

I  could  see  the  leader  of  the  riot — a  big  fellow  who  stood 
close  to  our  window.  He  was  bareheaded,  and  he  rested 
one  hand  on  the  side  of  the  car,  swinging  his  hat  with  the 
other,  far  above  his  head. 

"Three  groans  for  Carlisle!" 

Nothing  else  that  has  ever  pained  my  ears  has  given 
me  the  impression  of  brute  ferocity  that  stopped  the  beat- 
ing of  my  heart  for  one  awful  moment. 

From  the  mob  went  up  a  responsive  bellow  of  execration 
and  derision. 

"All  aboard!"  shouted  conductor  and  trainmen. 

385 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  hoarse  call  and  the  shriek  of  the  engine  were  wel- 
come music  to  the  travellers. 

My  husband's  eyes  met  mine. 

"What  Eric  S.  told  us  was  then  true,"  he  said,  without 
forming  the  words  with  his  lips.  "Virginia  has  joined  her 
sisters.  And  the  people  have  got  hold  of  the  news.  Are 
they  blind,  not  to  see  that  their  State  will  be  the  battle- 
ground, if  war  should  be  declared?" 

How  dearly  and  for  how  long  she  was  to  pay  for  her 
blindness,  let  the  history  of  the  next  four  years  say! 

Leaving  the  boat  at  Washington,  we  were  conveyed  by 
stages  across  the  city  to  the  Baltimore  station.  It  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  spring  morning,  when  we  passed  the 
Capitol.  It  was  lighted  from  basement  to  roof,  but,  to 
passers-by,  as  still  as  a  tomb.  Nothing  had  brought  home 
to  us  the  fact  and  the  imminence  of  the  peril  to  our  national 
existence,  as  did  the  sight  of  that  lighted  pile.  For,  as  we 
had  been  informed,  it  was  filled  with  armed  men,  on  guard 
against  surprise  or  open  attack.  On  the  train,  we  heard 
how  troops  had  been  hurried  from  all  quarters  of  the  still 
loyal  States  into  Washington.     The  war  was  on! 

Full  appreciation  of  what  the  Great  Awakening  was,  and 
what  it  portended,  came  to  us  in  Philadelphia.  I  had  not 
known  there  was  so  much  bunting  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic as  fluttered  in  the  breeze  in  the  city  of  staid  homes 
and  brotherly  loves.  It  was  a  veritable  bourgeoning  of 
patriotism.  From  church  -  spires  ;  from  shop- windows; 
from  stately  dwellings,  and  from  the  lowliest  house  in  the 
meanest  street— they 

"All  uttered  forth  a  glorious  voice." 

Successful  rebellion  seemed  an  impossibility  in  the  face 
of  the  demonstration. 

Every  village,  town,  and  farm-house  along  the  route 
proclaimed  the  same  thing.     So  convinced  were  we  that 

386 


"LAST   THROUGH  TRAIN    FOR   FOUR  YEARS" 

the  mere  knowledge  of  the  strength  and  unity  of  the  North, 
East,  and  West  would  carry  conviction  to  the  minds  of 
the  led,  and  strike  terror  to  the  hearts  of  the  leaders  in  the 
gigantic  Treason,  that  we  rallied  marvellously  the  spirits 
which  had  flagged  last  night. 

The  train  ran  into  Newark  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening. 
By  the  time  it  stopped,  we  had  a  glimpse  of  familiar  and 
anxious  faces.  We  stepped  off  into  the  arms  of  four  of 
our  parishioners,  all  on  the  alert  for  the  first  sight  of  the 
man  of  their  hour.  They  received  us  as  they  might  wel- 
come friends  rescued  from  great  and  sore  perils. 

Carriage  and  baggage-wagon  were  waiting.  We  were 
tucked  into  our  seats  tenderly,  and  with  what  would  have 
been  exaggerated  solicitude  in  men  less  single  of  heart  and 
motive. 

"But  you  knew  that  we  would  surely  come  back?"  I 
said  to  Mr.  Farmer,  at  the  third  repetition  of  his — "Thank 
Heaven  you  are  here!" 

The  quartette  of  heads  wagged  gravely. 

"We  knew  you  would,  if  you  could  get  here.  But  there 
is  no  telling  what  may  not  happen  in  these  times." 

Their  thanksgivings  were  echoed  by  ourselves,  when, 
that  very  week,  a  Massachusetts  regiment,  en  route  for 
Washington,  was  assailed  by  a  Baltimore  mob,  several 
killed  and  more  wounded,  and  the  railway  tracks  torn 
up,  to  prevent  the  progress  of  troops  to  the  national 
capital. 

We  laughed  a  little,  and  were  much  moved  to  see  a 
handsome  flag  projecting  from  a  second-story  window  of 
our  house,  as  we  alighted  at  the  door.  It  was  a  mute 
token  of  confidence  in  our  loyalty.  Smiles  and  softness 
chased  each  other  when  the  proud  cook,  left  in  charge 
during  our  absence,  related  how  the  "beautiful  supper," 
smoking  hot,  and  redolent  of  all  manner  of  appetizing  viands, 
was  the  gift  of  two  neighbors,  and  that  pantry  and  larder 

26  387 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  "just  packed  full"  of  useful  and  dainty  edibles,  sent 
and  brought  by  ladies  who  had  forbidden  her  to  tell  their 
names. 

Thus  began  the  four  years  of  separation  from  my  early 
home  and  those  who  had  hallowed  it  for  all  time.  That 
eventful  journey  was  the  dividing  line  between  the  Old 
Time  and  the  New.  With  it,  also  dawned  apprehension 
of  the  gracious  dealings  of  the  All-wise  and  All-merciful 
with  us — His  ignorant,  and  ofttimes  captious,  children.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  for  my  husband,  with  his 
staunch  principles  of  fidelity  to  the  government,  and  un- 
compromising adherence  to  what  he  believed  to  be  the 
right  in  the  lamentable  sectional  strife,  to  remain  in  the 
seceding  State.  Dearly  as  he  loved  Virginia — and  ro- 
mantic and  tender  as  was  his  attachment  to  the  brave  old 
days  that  were  to  him  the  poetry  of  domestic  and  social 
life — he  must  have  severed  his  connection  with  a  parish 
in  which  he  would  have  been  accounted  a  "suspect." 
Before  the  storm  broke,  we  were  gently  lifted  out  of  the 
"nest  among  the  oaks"  and  established,  as  tenderly,  in  the 
"pleasant  places"  the  Father — not  we — had  chosen. 


XL 


DOMESTIC    SORROWS    AND    NATIONAL    STORM    AND    STRESS — 
FRIENDS,    TRIED    AND   TRUE 

We  were  to  need  all  the  fulness  of  consolation  that 
could  be  expressed  from  divine  grace  and  human  friend- 
ships, in  the  years  immediately  succeeding  the  events  re- 
corded in  the  last  chapter. 

The  Muse  of  American  History  has  set  a  bloody  and  fire- 
blackened  cross  against  1861.  To  us,  it  was  darkened, 
through  three-quarters  of  its  weary  length,  by  the  shadows 
of  graves.  One  death  after  another  among  the  friends  to 
whom  we  clung  the  more  gratefully,  because  of  the  gulf — 
fast  filling  with  blood — that  parted  us  from  kindred  and 
early  companions,  followed  our  home-coming.  In  the  last 
week  of  August,  my  husband  recorded,  in  his  pastor's  note- 
book, that  he  had  stood,  in  fourteen  weeks,  at  the  open 
graves  of  as  many  parishioners,  among  them  some  who 
had  been  most  forward  in  welcoming  him  to  his  new  field, 
and  most  faithful  in  their  support  of  him  in  it. 

"It  is  literally  walking  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death!"  he  sighed,  closing  the  melancholy  pages.  "I  ask 
myself  tremblingly,  after  each  funeral — Who  next?" 

At  noon  on  September  second — the  fifth  anniversary  of 
our  wedding-day — our  boy  came  home  from  a  drive  with  his 
father,  feverish  and  drowsy,  and  fell  asleep  in  my  arms. 
On  the  fourteenth  of  the  same  month,  he  was  folded  in  an 
embrace,  yet  more  fond  and  safe,  beyond  the  touch  of 
mortal  sorrow. 

389 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

My  bonnie,  bonnie  boy!  who  had  never  had  a  day's 
illness  until  he  was  stricken  by  that  from  which  there  was 
no  recovery!  Diphtheria  was  comparatively  new  at  that 
time,  even  to  the  able  physician  who  was  our  devoted 
personal  friend.  The  boy  faded  before  it,  as  a  lily  in 
drought.  Four  days  before  he  left  us,  his  baby  sister  was 
smitten  by  the  same  disease.  Two  days  after  the  funeral, 
their  father  fell  ill  with  it.  Why  neither  Alice,  I,  nor  the 
faithful  nurse  who  assisted  us  in  the  care  of  the  three 
patients,  did  not  take  the  infection  is  a  mystery.  There 
were  no  quarantine  regulations  to  prevent  the  spread  of 
what  is  now  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  virulent  of 
epidemics.  We  took  absolutely  no  precautions;  friends 
flocked  to  us  as  freely  as  if  there  were  no  danger.  Our 
fearlessness  may  have  been  a  catholicon.  We  nursed  the 
sufferers  back  to  health,  and,  looking  to  God  for  strength, 
took  our  places  again  in  the  ranks. 

Such  a  trite,  every-day  story  as  it  is!  To  the  soul  for 
which  the  task  is  set,  it  is  as  novel  and  crucial  as  death 
itself.  It  is  not  the  young  mother  who  finds  comfort  and 
tonic  in  the  inspired  assurance: 

"For  while  we  bear  it,  we  can  bear; 
Past  that — we  lay  it  down!" 

For  four  months,  we  had  not  a  letter  from  Richmond. 
The  cordon  was  drawn  closely  about  the  chief  seat  of  the 
Rebellion — now  the  capital  of  the  Confederacy.  It  was 
hard  to  smuggle  private  letters  through  the  lines.  We 
wrote  by  every  possible  opportunity,  and  were  certain 
that  my  family  were  as  watchful  of  chances,  likely  and  im- 
probable. At  Christmas,  we  had  a  packet  that  had  been 
run  through  by  way  of  Kentucky,  by  a  man  who  wrote  to 
say  that  he  had  been  ill  in  a  Richmond  hospital  and  re- 
ceived great  kindness  from  my  mother.  When  he  was 
well  enough  to  rejoin  his  regiment,  he  had  offered  to  get 

390 


DOMESTIC    SORROWS 

her  letters  to  me,  if  it  were  in  the  power  of  man  to  do  it. 
His  plan,  he  said,  was  to  entrust  the  parcel  to  a  trusty 
negro,  who  would  swim  the  Ohio  River  on  horseback  at  a 
point  where  the  stream  was  narrow,  and  post  letters  on 
the  other  side.  If  I  should  receive  them,  I  might  know 
that  he  had  fulfilled  his  pledge  to  my  mother.  If  I  did  not 
get  them,  I  would  never  know  how  hard  he  had  tried  to 
keep  his  word. 

I  have  often  wondered  if  he  received  the  answers  we 
dispatched  to  the  post-office  from  which  our  precious 
letters  were  mailed.     I  never  heard  from  him  again. 

Home-bulletins  brought  the  news  of  the  death  of  my 
stern  old  grandmother  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-four. 
She  had  never  given  her  sanction  to  the  war,  disapprov- 
ing of  military  operations  with  the  whole  might  of  her 
rugged  nature.  On  a  certain  Sunday  in  June,  news  was 
brought  by  fast  express,  while  the  people  were  in  church, 
that  the  war- vessel  Pawnee  was  on  its  way  up  the  river  to 
bombard  the  town.  Owing  to  the  old  lady's  deafness,  she 
did  not  fully  comprehend  why  the  services  were  closed 
summarily,  and  the  streets  were  too  full  of  people  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  for  my  father  to  explain  the  state  of  affairs  on 
the  way  home.  On  the  front  steps  they  met  my  brother 
Horace  in  the  uniform  of  the  Richmond  Howitzers,  to 
which  he  belonged.  They  had  been  ordered  summarily 
to  repair  to  the  point  from  which  the  expected  attack  was 
to  be  repelled.  A  few  hasty  sentences  put  her  into  pos- 
session of  leading  facts;  the  boy  kissed  her;  shook  hands 
with  his  father,  and  ran  down  the  street. 

The  old  Massachusetts  dame,  whose  father  and  husband 
had  fought  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  stood  still  and  looked 
after  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

He  was  her  favorite  of  the  boys — we  fancied  because  he 
resembled  the  Edwin  she  had  wished  to  adopt,  and  who 
died  in  her  arms. 

391 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  lad  she  followed  with  puzzled  and  griefful  eyes  was 
of  a  goodly  presence,  and  never  goodlier  than  in  his  uni- 
form. Did  she  bethink  herself  of  the  probability  that  she 
might  never  see  him  again?  What  she  thought,  and  what 
she  felt,  will  never  be  known.  When  my  father  addressed 
her,  she  gazed  at  him  with  uncomprehending  eyes,  turned, 
and  walked  feebly  up  the  stairs. 

"I  am  afraid  mother  is  not  well,"  said  my  father  to  my 
mother,  after  they  had  talked  a  few  minutes  of  the  alarm 
and  Horace's  departure.  "She  looked  shaken  by  the  boy's 
going.     Will  you  go  up  and  look  after  her?" 

She  had  undressed  and  gone  to  bed.  She  had  taken  her 
seat  in  church  that  morning,  a  fine-looking  dame  of  the  old 
school;  erect  and  strong;  alert  of  wits  and  firm  of  pur- 
pose. My  mother  looked  into  the  face  of  a  shrunken,  dull- 
eyed  crone,  who  asked,  in  quavering  accents,  "Who  she 
was,  and  what  was  her  business?"  Then  she  began  to 
moan  and  beg  to  be  taken  "home."  That  was  her  cry, 
whenever  she  spoke  at  all,  all  summer  long.  But  once  did 
she  quit  her  bed.  That  was  when  the  nurse  left  her,  as 
they  supposed,  sleeping,  and  discovered  her  half  an  hour 
later,  fumbling  at  the  lock  of  the  front  door,  and  in  her 
nightgown.  She  "wanted  to  go  home!  she  would  go 
home!"  She  went  on  September  5th,  while  we,  hundreds 
of  miles  away,  were  watching  over  our  sick  boy. 

"The  war  killed  off  most  of  our  old  people/7  said  an  ex- 
Confederate  officer  once  to  me.  "Almost  as  many  died 
of  sheer  brokenheartedness,  as  on  the  battle-field!  That's 
an  account  somebody  has  got  to  settle  some  day,  if  there  is 
any  justice  in  heaven." 

In  the  autumn  of  1862,  the  state  of  my  sister  Alice's 
health  demanded  a  change  of  climate  so  imperatively  that 
we  had  no  option  in  the  consideration  of  the  emergency. 
Her  throat  was  seriously  affected;  she  had  not  spoken 
above  a  whisper  for  six  months.     To  keep  her  in  Newark 

392 


DOMESTIC    SORROWS 

for  another  winter  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Our  parents 
were  writing  by  every  available  flag  of  truce  strenuous 
orders  that  she  should  "come  home."  In  early  October, 
Mr.  Terhune  took  her  down  to  an  obscure  village  in  Mary- 
land directly  upon  Chesapeake  Bay.  It  was,  in  fact,  a 
smuggling-station,  from  which  merchandise  of  various  sorts 
was  ferried  into  Virginia,  in  direct  violation  of  embargo 
laws.  Southern  sympathizers,  whom  loyalists  were  be- 
ginning to  brand  as  "Copperheads" — a  name  that  stuck 
fast  to  them  throughout  the  war — ran  the  enterprise  and 
profited  by  it.  Through  one  of  these,  information  sifted 
to  us  of  which  we  made  use.  When  necessity  drives,  it  will 
not  do  to  be  fastidious  as  to  instruments  that  will  save  us. 

At  dead  of  night  my  young  sister  was  put  into  a 
boat,  warmly  wrapped  from  the  river-fogs,  and,  in  charge 
of  a  Richmond  gentleman  who  was  returning  home,  sent 
across  the  unlicensed  ferry.  Her  father  awaited  her  on 
the  other  shore.  A  mile  above  and  a  mile  below,  lurid 
gleams,  like  the  eyes  of  river-monsters  watching  for  their 
prey,  showed  where  United  States  gunboats  lay  in  mid- 
stream to  intercept  unlawful  commerce  and  to  arrest 
offenders.  My  husband  did  not  impart  to  me  the  details 
of  the  adventure  until  we  had  heard  of  the  child's  restora- 
tion to  her  father's  arms.  Then  he  told  of  the  fearful 
anxiety  with  which  he  waited  on  the  Maryland  shore, 
under  starless  skies,  scanning  the  menacing  lights  up  and 
down  the  river,  and  straining  his  ears  for  the  ripple  against 
the  sides  of  the  boat  making  its  way,  cautiously,  with 
muffled  oars,  across  the  watery  track.  To  deflect  from  the 
viewless  course  would  be  to  awaken  the  sleeping  dogs  of 
war.  The  lonely  watcher  feared  every  minute  to  see  from 
either  of  the  gunboats  a  flash  of  fire,  followed  by  the  boom 
of  a  cannon,  signalling  the  discovery  of  the  attempt  to 
evade  the  embargo. 

"The  dreariest  vigil  imaginable!"  he  said.     "I  stayed 

393 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

there  for  two  hours,  until  I  was  sure  the  boat  must  have 
made  the  landing.  Had  it  been  intercepted,  I  should  have 
seen  some  change  in  the  position  of  those  red  eyes  and 
heard  a  shot." 

Before  she  embarked  he  had  given  the  fugitive  a  self- 
addressed  envelope  enclosing  a  card,  on  which  was  written: 
"Arrived  safely."  She  pencilled  below — "Alice,"  and  sent 
it  back  by  the  boatman.  It  was  a  week  old  when  he  got  it, 
and  creased  and  soiled  by  much  handling. 

Then  fell  silence,  that  was  felt  every  waking  hour,  and 
lasted  for  four  long  months.  On  the  first  day  of  February, 
my  husband  being  absent  from  home,  I  walked  down  to 
the  city  post-office  with  Mrs.  Greenleaf,  my  eldest  sister-in- 
law,  who  was  visiting  us,  and  took  from  our  box  a  thin 
letter  addressed  in  my  mother's  hand,  and  stamped  "Flag 
of  Truce." 

It  was  but  one  page  in  length.  Flag-of-truce  communi- 
cations were  limited  to  that.  The  first  line  branded  itself 
upon  my  brain: 

"1  have  written  to  you  several  times  since  our  precious  Alice's 
death!" 

She  had  rallied  finely  in  her  native  air,  and  was,  appar- 
ently, on  the  highroad  to  health  when  smallpox  broke  out 
in  Richmond  military  hospitals.  It  spread  to  the  citizens. 
The  town  was  crowded,  and  quarantine  laws  were  lax.  Dr. 
Haxall  called  and  insisted  that  the  entire  family  be  re- 
vaccinated.  He  had  his  way  with  all  save  one.  Alice 
put  him  off  with  a  jest,  and  my  mother  bade  him  "call 
again,  when  she  may  be  more  reasonable."  I  fancy  none 
of  them  put  much  faith  in  the  honest  physician's  assertion 
that  the  precautionary  measure  was  a  necessity.  In  those 
days  a  "good  vaccination  scar"  was  supposed  to  last  a 
lifetime.  My  sister  fell  ill  a  fortnight  afterward,  and  the 
seizure  was  pronounced  to  be  "varioloid." 

394 


NATIONAL  STORM  AND  STRESS 

A  girl's  wilful  whim!  A  mother's  indulgence!  These 
may,  or  may  not,  have  been  the  opening  acts  of  the  tragedy. 
God  knows! 

Alice  was  in  her  twenty-second  year,  and  in  mind  the 
most  brilliant  of  the  family.  She  was  an  ardent  student 
for  learning's  sake,  and  an  accomplished  English  scholar; 
wrote  and  spoke  French  fluently,  and  was  proficient  in 
the  Latin  classics.  The  one  sketch  from  her  pen  ever 
published  appeared  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
while  she  was  ill.  It  proved  what  we  had  known  already, 
that  her  talent  for  composition  was  of  a  high  order.  Had 
she  lived,  the  reading  world  would  have  ratified  our 
judgment. 

On  March  7th  of  that  dark  and  bloody  year,  the  low 
tide  of  hope  with  the  nation,  our  home  was  brightened  by 
the  birth  of  a  second  daughter — our  first  brunette  bairnie. 
Her  brother  and  sister  had  the  Terhune  blue  eyes  and 
sunny  hair.  She  came  on  a  wild,  snowy  day,  and  brought 
such  wealth  of  balm  and  blessing  with  her  as  seldom  en- 
dows parents  and  home  by  reason  of  a  single  birth.  From 
the  hour  of  her  advent,  Baby  Alice  was  her  father's  idol. 
Why,  we  could  not  say  then.  The  fact — amusing  at  times 
— always  patent— of  the  peculiar  tenderness  binding  to- 
gether the  hearts  of  the  father  and  the  girl-child — remained, 
and  was  gradually  accepted,  without  comment,  by  us  all. 

It  was  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  be  able  once  more 
to  talk  of  "the  children."  One  never  divines  the  depth 
of  sweetness  and  significance  in  the  term  until  one  has 
been  robbed  of  the  right  to  use  it,  through  months  of 
missing  what  has  been. 

Other,  if  minor,  distractions  from  personal  sorrow  and 
public  solicitudes  were  not  wanting  that  year.  I  had  been 
drawn  into  charitable  organizations  born  of  the  times. 
Our  noble  church  was  forward  in  co-operation  with  muni- 
cipal and  State  authorities  in  relieving  the  distress  of  the 

395 


MARION    HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

thousands  who  were  reduced  to  poverty  by  the  loss  of 
the  Southern  trade  and  the  stagnation  of  home  industries. 
Prices  went  up,  and  wages  went  down;  soldiers'  widows 
and  orphans  must  be  cared  for;  the  soldiers  in  camps  and 
hospitals  were  but  ill-provided  with  the  comforts  they 
had  a  right  to  expect  from  the  government  and  their 
fellow-citizens.  We  had  Soldiers'  Relief  Societies,  and 
Auxiliary  Societies  to  the  Sanitary  and  Christian  Com- 
missions, and  by-and-by,  as  the  monetary  situation  told 
fiercely  upon  the  women  and  children  of  unemployed 
operatives,  associations  that  supplied  their  wives  with 
sewing. 

But  for  active  participation  in  each  of  these  benevolent 
organizations,  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  kept  my  rea- 
son while  the  fratricidal  conflict  gathered  force  and  heat. 

My  situation  was  peculiar,  and,  among  my  daily  asso- 
ciates, unique.  Loving  the  Union  with  a  passion  of  pa- 
triotism inconceivable  by  those  who  have  never  had  what 
they  call  by  that  name  put  to  such  test  of  rack  and  flame 
as  the  martyrs  of  old  endured,  I  yet  had  no  personal 
interest  in  one  soldier  who  fought  for  the  Cause  as  dear 
to  me  as  life  itself.  My  prayers  and  hopes  went  out  to 
the  Federal  army  as  a  glorious  engine,  consecrated  to  a 
sublime  and  holy  purpose — even  the  salvation  of  the 
nation  by  the  preservation  of  the  Union.  And  all  the 
while,  my  best-beloved  brother  was  in  the  fiercest  of  the 
fight  down  there,  in  the  State  dearer  to  me  than  any  other 
could  ever  be.  Cousins  by  the  score,  and  friends  and 
valued  acquaintances  by  the  hundred,  were  with  Lee  and 
Jackson,  Early,  Stuart,  and  Hill,  exposed  to  shot  and  shell 
and  sword.  My  brother  Herbert  had  gone  home  in  '61, 
after  he  was  graduated  from  the  Theological  Seminary  in 
New  Brunswick,  and  received  a  license  to  preach. 

Shortly  after  his  installation  in  a  country  parish,  he 
had  married  a  girl  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  while  studying 

396 


FRIENDS,  TRIED   AND  TRUE 

with  my  husband  in  Charlotte.  Although  a  non-com- 
batant, he  might  be  forced  by  circumstances  to  take  up 
arms,  as  many  of  the  profession  were  doing.  His  home 
was  raided  more  than  once  by  predatory  bands  of  strag- 
glers from  the  Federal  army,  and  twice  by  cavalry  dashes 
under  leaders  whose  names  were  a  terror  throughout 
southern  and  central  Virginia.  My  brother  Percy,  at 
fourteen,  enlisted,  and  quickly  gained  reputation  as  a 
courier  under  Lee's  own  eye,  being  a  daring  rider,  court- 
ing, instead  of  shunning,  danger,  and,  like  his  father  and 
brothers,  an  utter  stranger  to  physical  fear  in  any  shape 
whatsoever. 

When — as  happened  almost  daily — our  papers  published 
lists  of  the  killed  and  wounded  in  Lee's  army,  my  hand 
shook  so  violently  in  holding  the  sheet,  that  I  had  to  lay 
it  on  the  table  to  steady  the  lines  into  legibility,  my  heart 
rolling  over  with  sick  thuds,  while  my  eyes  ran  down  the 
line  of  names.  Add  to  this  ceaseless  horror  of  suspense 
the  long,  awful  spaces  of  silence  between  the  flag-of-truce 
letters — and  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  I  plunged  into 
routine  work  —  domestic,  literary,  religious,  charitable, 
and  patriotic — with  feverish  energy,  as  the  only  hope  of 
maintaining  a  tolerable  degree  of  sanity? 

And  how  good  "our  people"  were  to  me  through  it  all! 
The  simple  act  of  setting  the  flag  above  our  door-steps 
when  we  returned  from  Rebeldom,  was  emblematic  of  the 
position  taken  and  held  by  them,  as  a  body,  during  that 
trial-period.  They  trusted  us  without  reservation.  More- 
over, never,  howsoever  high  might  run  the  tide  of  popular 
feeling  at  the  tidings  of  defeat  or  victory  to  the  national 
Cause,  was  one  of  them  ever  betrayed  into  a  word  of 
vituperation  of  my  native  South,  or  ungenerous  exultation 
over  her  downfall.  The  tact  and  delicacy  in  this  respect 
displayed  by  them,  without  an  exception,  deserves  higher 
praise  than  I  can  award  in  this  humble  chronicle. 

397 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Loving  loyalty  of  this  type  was  a  panoply  and  a  stimu- 
lant to  my  sorely-taxed  spirit.  Sheer  gratitude  should 
have  bound  me  to  them  as  a  co-worker. 

When  men  like  Peter  and  John  Ballantine — than  whom 
God  never  made  a  nobler,  pair  of  brothers — and  Edgar 
Farmer — all  the  busiest  of  men — would  go  out  of  their 
way,  in  business  hours,  to  make  a  special  call  upon  me, 
after  the  news  of  a  battle  had  set  the  town  on  fire  with 
excitement,  to  "hope,"  in  brotherly  solicitude,  that  ''this 
does  not  mean  a  heartache  for  you?" — when  the  safety 
of  my  brothers,  and  the  welfare  of  my  parents,  was  the  sub- 
ject of  affectionate  inquiry,  whenever  we  met  friend  or 
acquaintance  connected  with  church  or  parish,  I  used  to 
say  to  my  husband  and  myself,  that  the  world  had  never 
seen  more  truly  chivalrous  natures  than  those  of  these 
practical  Middle  States  men,  who  never  thought  of  them- 
selves as  knightly. 


XLI 


FORT     DELAWARE — "OLD     GLORY" — LINCOLN  S     ASSASSINA- 
TION— THE    RELEASED    PRISONER    OF    WAR 

In  the  last  week  of  May,  18G4,  I  had  a  letter  from  my 
brother  Horace,  now  a  Lieutenant  in  the  Richmond 
Howitzers,  C.S.A. 

It  bore  the  heading:  "  Under  the  walls  of  Fort  Delaware," 
and  was  scribbled  upon  the  deck  of  a  United  States  trans- 
port. 

With  the  gay  courage  that  was  his  characteristic,  and 
without  waste  of  words  in  preliminaries,  directness  in 
action  and  speech  being  another  prominent  trait  with  him, 
he  informed  me  that  "General  Hancock,  by  making  an 
ungenerously  early  start  at  Spottsylvania  Court-House — 
before  breakfast,  in  fact — on  the  morning  of  May  21st, 
captured  part  of  our  division." 

The  letter  wound  up  with:  "We  are  now  approaching 
Fort  Delaware,  which  is,  we  are  told,  our  destination. 
I  am  well.     Don't  take  this  to  heart.     /  don't!" 

I  was  so  far  from  taking  it  to  heart  that  I  called  upon 
my  soul,  and  all  that  was  within  me,  to  return  thanks  to 
Him  who  had  delivered  my  darling  boy  from  the  battle 
that  was  against  him.  He  was  now  out  of  the  reach  of 
bullet  and  bayonet. 

If  I  did  not  summon  neighbors  and  friends  to  rejoice 
with  me  over  my  brother's  capture,  the  news  spread  fast, 
and  congratulatory  calls  were  the  order  of  the  next  few 
days.     Not  satisfied  with  words  of  good-will,  every  bit  of 

399 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

political  machinery  at  the  command  of  our  friends  was 
put  in  motion  to  secure  for  me  the  great  joy  of  visiting 
him. 

One  of  these  plans  so  nearly  succeeded  that  I  went, 
under  the  escort  of  the  plotter,  as  far  as '  Delaware  City, 
within  sight  of  the  gloomy  fortress,  to  be  turned  back  by 
a  new  order — incited  by  a  rumored  attempt  at  escape  of 
the  prisoners — prohibiting  any  visitors  from  entering  the 
fort. 

In  the  tranquil  assurance  of  the  captive  s  security  from 
the  chances  of  war,  I  bore  up  under  the  failure  better 
than  could  have  been  expected,  solacing  myself  by  writ- 
ing, regularly,  long  letters,  and  the  preparation  of  boxes  of 
books  and  provisions,  which  I  was  allowed  to  forward 
weekly.  It  was  "almost  as  good,"  I  wrote  to  him,  glee- 
fully, "as  having  a  son  at  school,  for  whom  I  could  get  up 
boxes  of  goodies." 

Twice  I  had  direct  intelligence  of  him  from  army  officers, 
who  sought  him  out  and  talked  to  him  of  us. 

One  wrote:  "Fine-looking  fellow — hearty  as  a  buck! 
In  good  heart,  and  in  good  looks."  Another:  "Never  met 
a  nicer  fellow.     I  wish  he  had  been  on  our  side!" 

While  I  was  comforting  myself  with  these  mitigating  in- 
cidents, the  line  of  communication  was  abruptly  severed 
by  the  transfer  of  prisoners  from  Fort  Delaware  to  Hilton, 
South  Carolina.  I  had  no  letter  for  a  month,  and  began 
to  think — I  might  say,  to  fear — that  an  exchange  of  pris- 
oners had  returned  him  to  Virginia.  He  gave  the  reason 
for  his  silence  finally: 

"In  pursuance  of  the  retaliatory  policy  determined  upon  by 

the  Federal  authorities,  we  were  brought  here  and  placed,  for 

three  weeks,  under  the  fire  of  our  own  guns  from  the  shore. 

Our  fare  was  pickles  and  corn-meal,  for  the  same  time.    I  did 

not  write  while  this  state  of  things  prevailed.     It  would  have 

distressed  you  uselessly." 

400 


FORT    DELAWARE 

He  went  on  to  say  that  the  order  of  retaliation  for  the 
cruelties  inflicted  upon  Federal  captives  in  Confederate 
prisons,  had  been  rescinded.  The  Confederates,  now  at 
Hilton  Head,  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  lodged  luxuriously; 
but  they  were  no  longer  animated  targets. 

Through  the  intercession  of  a  friend  with  Gen.  Stewart 
L.  Woodford,  then  in  command  in  South  Carolina,  I  gained 
permission  to  supply  my  brother  with  "plain  clothing, 
books,  papers,  food,  and  small  sums  of  money."  The 
latter  went  to  him  by  the  kind  and  safe  hand  of  Richard 
Ryerson,  a  young  Jerseyman,  holding  office  in  the  Com- 
missary Department  at  Hilton  Head.  My  letters  were 
forwarded  under  cover  to  the  same  generous  intermediary. 

Thus  was  another  crooked  way  made  straight. 

The  news  of  the  evacuation;  of  my  brother's  removal 
back  to  Fort  Delaware,  and  a  letter  from  my  father,  sent 
by  private  hand  to  Mr.  Terhune,  came  simultaneously. 
My  husband  had  had  a  verbal  message  through  a  trusty 
"refugee,"  as  long  ago  as  January,  to  the  effect  that  the 
fall  of  the  city  could  not,  in  my  father's  judgment,  be  long 
delayed.  Since  confiscation  was  sure  to  follow  the  col- 
lapse of  the  Confederacy,  he  instructed  my  husband  to 
repair  to  Richmond,  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  after 
the  way  was  cut  open  by  the  victorious  army,  and  claim 
the  family  estate  in  the  name  of  his  wife,  our  loyalty  being 
unquestionable. 

In  the  light  of  what  really  happened  when  the  city  was 
occupied  by  the  invaders,  the  precaution  seems  absurdly 
useless.  Then,  it  was  prudent  in  the  estimation  of  those 
best  acquainted  with  the  current  of  public  affairs.  Every 
dollar  belonging,  in  fact,  or  constructively,  to  Northern 
citizens,  that  the  Confederate  authorities  could  reach,  had 
been  confiscated  early  in  the  action.  My  husband  was  a 
non-combatant  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  by  reason  of  his  pro- 
fession.    Yet  the  few  thousands  we  had  invested  in  vari- 

401 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ous  ways  in  Virginia  had  gone  the  way  of  ail  the  rest. 
It  was  but  fair  to  suppose  that  the  rebels  would  be  stripped 
of  houses,  lands,  and  money. 

On  New- Year's  day,  we  had  a  call  from  Dr.  J.  J.  Craven, 
Medical  Director  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  a  warm  per- 
sonal friend  of  Mr.  Terhune.  He  was  stationed  at  Fort 
Monroe,  the  key  to  the  James  River.  Him,  my  husband 
took  into  confidence,  and  it  was  arranged  between  them 
that  the  latter  was  to  be  notified  of  the  practicability  of 
entering  the  city  in  the  track  of  the  troops,  when  the  in- 
evitable hour  should  arrive. 

On  one  and  the  same  day  in  April,  Mr.  Terhune  had  a 
telegram  from  Fort  Monroe,  containing  three  words:  "Come 
at  once,"  and  I  a  letter  from  my  faithful  ally,  Ossian  Ash- 
ley, enclosing  an  introductory  note  from  General  Butter- 
field  to  the  Commandant  at  Fort  Delaware,  requesting  him 
to  permit  me  to  see  my  brother. 

Mr.  Farmer,  my  husband's  companion  in  many  expedi- 
tions and  journey ings,  consented  gladly  to  go  with  him 
now.  We  three  left  next  morning  for  Philadelphia,  and 
the  two  gentlemen  accompanied  me  in  the  afternoon  to 
Fort  Delaware. 

We  were  courteously  received  by  the  officials,  the  Com- 
mandant voluntarily  relaxing  the  rules  at  our  parting,  to 
let  my  brother  walk  across  the  drawbridge  and  down  to 
the  wharf  with  me.  High  good -humor  reigned  in  all 
branches  of  the  service.  The  war  was  virtually  over. 
As  we  sailed  out  into  the  bay,  and  I  threw  a  last  salute  to 
the  soldierly  figure  standing  on  the  pier,  it  was  with  a 
bound  of  hope  at  my  heart  to  which  it  had  been  long  a 
stranger.  "My  boy"  would  join  us  in  our  home  before 
many  days.  He  had  never  been  a  rebel,  indeed;  he  had 
gone  reluctantly  into  the  service,  as  had  thousands  of  others. 
The  chance  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  Federal 
government  would  be  readily  embraced  by  him  and  his 

402 


"OLD  GLORY"— LINCOLN'S  ASSASSINATION 

comrades.  And  my  husband  had  engaged  to  see  to  it 
that  the  opportunity  should  not  be  long  delayed.  We 
parted  in  Philadelphia,  I  passing  the  night  with  friends 
there,  the  two  men  going  on  to  Fort  Monroe.  By  Doctor 
Craven's  kindly  management,  they  found  a  transport 
awaiting  their  arrival.  They  were,  thus,  the  first  civil- 
ians to  enter  Richmond  after  the  military  took  pos- 
session. 

A  hasty  note  from  Fort  Monroe  apprised  me  of  the  suc- 
cess of  the  expedition,  up  to  that  point.  Beyond  that 
place  there  were  no  postal  or  telegraphic  facilities.  I  must 
wait  patiently  until  they  touched  Old  Point  on  the  return 
journey. 

With  a  thankful  spirit  and  busy  hands,  I  fell  to  work, 
making  ready  for  the  home-coming  of  husband  and  brother. 
It  was  as  if  the  world  and  the  house  were  swept  and  gar- 
nished together. 

In  the  early  dawn  of  April  loth,  too  happily  excited  to 
sleep,  I  arose  and  looked  from  my  dressing-room  window 
over  intervening  buildings  and  streets,  to  the  spire  of  Old 
Trinity  Church. 

Church's  picture,  Our  Banner  in  the  Sky,  was  painted 
during  the  Rebellion,  and  every  print-shop  window  dis- 
played a  copy  of  it.  Some  of  my  older  readers  may  rec- 
ollect it.  A  tall,  and  at  the  summit,  leafless,  pine  stood 
up,  stark  and  gaunt,  against  a  sky  barred  with  crimson-and- 
white.  Above,  a  cluster  of  stars  glimmered  faintly  in  the 
dusky  blue.  It  was  a  weird  "impressionist"  picture,  that 
fired  the  imagination  and  thrilled  the  heart  of  the  lover  of 
our  glorious  Union. 

From  my  window,  I  saw  it  now  in  fulness  of  detail.  I 
had  heard  the  story  of  "Old  Glory,"  a  little  while  before. 
The  words  leaped  from  my  lips  at  the  sight  of  the  splendid 
flag  on  the  staff  towering  from  the  church-spire.  Straight 
and  strong,  it  streamed  over  the  sleeping  city  in  the  fresh 
27  403 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

breeze  from  the  sea,  emblem  of  the  triumphant  right — of  a 
saved  nation! 

"Old  Glory!"  I  cried  aloud,  and  fell  upon  my  knees  to 
thank  God  for  what  it  meant. 

Had  another  woman  in  the  land — now,  more  than  ever 
and  forever,  "God's  Country" — such  cause  as  I  to  return 
thanks  for  what  had  been  in  the  last  month? 

The  glow  of  exultation  still  warmed  my  inmost  being, 
when  I  halted  on  the  upper  stair  on  my  way  down  to 
breakfast.  Hearing  a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  with  the 
thought  of  a  telegram,  as  probable  explanation  of  the 
untimely  call,  I  leaned  breathlessly  over  the  balustrade 
as  the  maid  opened  the  door. 

It  was  a  parishioner,  and  a  neighbor.  He  spoke  hur- 
riedly : 

"Will  you  say  to  Mrs.  Terhune  that  the  President  was 
assassinated  in  Ford's  Theatre  in  Washington  last  night?" 

When,  hours  and  hours  afterward,  I  looked,  with  eyes 
dimmed  by  weeping,  upon  "Old  Glory,"  it  hung  limp  at 
half-mast,  and  the  background  was  dull  with  rain-clouds. 

I  had  many  visitors  that  day.  My  nearest  neighbor, 
and,  to  this  hour,  one  of  my  closest  friends,  ran  in  to  "see 
how  I  was  bearing  it.  I  must  not  get  overexcited !"  Then 
she  broke  down,  and  wept  stormily,  as  for  a  murdered 
father. 

"We  never  knew  how  we  loved  him  until  now!"  she 
sobbed. 

That  was  the  cry  of  every  torn  heart.  At  last,  we  knew 
the  patient,  tender-hearted,  magnificent  patriot-hero  for 
what  he  was — the  second  Father  of  his  Country.  At  least 
a  dozen  men  dropped  in  to  "talk  over"  the  bereavement. 
One,  as  rugged  of  feature  and  as  soft  of  heart  as  our 
martyred  head,  said,  huskily,  holding  my  hand  in  our 
"  good-bye  " : 

"Somehow,  it  does  me  good  to  hear  you  talk,  in  your 

404 


THE    RELEASED    PRISONER    OF    WAR 

Southern  accent,  of  our  common  grief.  I  can't  exactly  ex- 
press what  it  means  to  me.  Words  come  hard  to-day. 
But  it  may  be  a  sign  that  this  awful  sorrow  may,  in  God's 
hands,  be  the  means  of  bringing  us  brothers  together  again. 
He  always  felt  kindly  toward  them.  Some  day,  they  may 
be  brought  to  see  that  they  have  lost  their  best  friend. 
God  knows!" 

I  thank  Him  that,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  the  old  man's 
hope  has  been  fulfilled. 

My  husband  brought  home  with  him  my  youngest  sis- 
ter, Myrtle. 

One  of  the  incongruities  that  strike  oddly  across  our 
moments  of  intensest  emotion  was,  that,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  welcome  and  surprise  (for  I  had  had  no  intima- 
tion of  her  coming),  I  bethought  myself  that  I  had  never 
known,  until  I  heard  her  call  my  name,  that  girls'  voices 
change  as  boys'  do,  in  passing  from  childhood  into  youth. 
I  left  her  a  little  girl  in  short  dresses.  In  four  years  she 
had  passed  the  delta 

"Where  the  brook  and  river  meet." 

Girls  and  boys  matured  fast  under  the  influences  that 
had  ripened  her  character. 

It  was  a  rare  and  lovely  product  which  linked  itself 
into  the  chain  of  my  life,  for  the  score  of  years  beyond  our 
reunion.  To  say  that  her  companionship  was  a  comfort 
and  joy  unspeakable,  that  summer,  would  be  to  describe 
feebly  what  her  coming  brought  into  my  existence.  The 
burden  of  solicitudes  and  suspense,  of  actual  bereavement 
and  dreads  of  the  morrow's  happenings,  slid  from  my 
shoulders,  as  Christian's  pack  from  him  at  the  Cross.  I 
grew  young  again. 

My  third  baby-girl,  Virginia  Belle,  was  ten  days  old 
when  my  liberated  brother  was  added,  like  a  beautiful 
clasp,   to  the  golden  circle  of  our  reunited  family.     He 

405 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

came  directly  to  us,  and  lingered  longer  than  I  had  dared 
expect,  for  recuperation,  and  for  enjoyment  of  the  society 
from  which  he  had  been  so  long  exiled. 

A  pretty  love-story,  the  initial  chapters  of  which  had 
been  rudely  broken  into  by  the  war,  was  resumed  and 
continued  at  this  visit.  That  the  girl-friend  who  had 
grown  into  a  sister's  place  in  our  home  and  affections, 
should  marry  my  dearest  brother,  was  a  dream  too  fair 
of  complexion  and  too  symmetrical  in  proportions,  to  be 
indulged  under  conditions  that  had  prevailed  since  his 
visit  to  Newark,  almost  five  years  ago.  Yet  this  was  the 
vision  that  began  to  define  itself  into  a  blessed  reality,  by 
the  time  the  soldier  -  returned  -  from  -  the  -  war  packed  the 
outfit  of  civilized  and  civilian  clothing— the  getting-to- 
gether  of  which  had  been  one  ostensible  excuse  for  ex- 
tending the  visit — and  took  his  way  southward. 

It  was  a  divine  breathing-spell  for  us  and  for  the  country 
— that  summer  of  peace  and  plenty. 

For  three  years  past,  we  had  spent  each  July  and  August 
in  a  roomy  farm-house  among  the  Jersey  hills.  For  the 
first  season,  we  were  the  only  boarders.  Then,  perhaps 
because  we  boasted  somewhat  too  freely  of  the  healthful- 
ness  of  the  region,  and  the  excellent  country  fare  set  be- 
fore us  by  good  Mrs.  Blauvelt,  the  retreat  from  malaria 
and  mosquitoes  became  too  popular  for  our  comfort. 
When  there  were  three  babies,  a  nurse,  a  visiting  sister, 
our  two  selves,  and  a  horse,  to  be  accommodated,  we  found 
the  once  ample  quarters  too  strait  for  us. 

For  baby  Belle's  sake  we  migrated  late  in  June  of 
this  year.  We  were  discussing  the  seriousness  of  the 
problem  consequent  upon  a  growing  family,  as  we  drove 
up  a  long  hill,  one  July  day,  Alice  on  a  cricket  between  us 
in  the  foot  of  the  buggy,  when  an  exclamation  from  my 
husband  stopped  a  sentence  in  the  middle.  He  drew  the 
horse  to  a  sudden  halt. 

406 


THE    RELEASED    PRISONER    OF    WAR 

Woodmen  were  busy  with  destructive  axes  upon  a  body 
of  native  trees  at  the  left  of  our  road.  They  had  opened 
to  our  sight  a  view  heretofore  hidden  by  the  wood.  A 
lake,  blue  and  tranquil  as  the  heavens  it  mirrored;  green 
slopes,  running  down  to  the  water;  wooded  heights,  bor- 
dering the  thither  banks,  and  around,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  mountains,  benignant  in  outline  and  verdant 
to  their  summits,  billowing,  range  beyond  range,  against 
the  horizon — why  had  we  never  seen  this  before?  It  was 
like  a  section  of  the  Delectable  Mountains,  gently  lowered 
from  Bunyan's  Beulah  Land,  and  set  down  within  thirty 
miles  of  the  biggest  city  in  America. 

The  rapt  silence  was  ended  by  one  word  from  my  com- 
panion : 

"Alabama!" 

He  passed  the  reins  into  my  hands,  and  leaped  over  the 
wheel.  Making  his  way  down  the  hill,  he  stopped  to  talk 
with  the  workmen  for  ten  minutes.  Then  he  came  back, 
held  up  a  hand  to  help  me  out  of  the  carriage,  and  lifted 
"Brownie"  in  his  arms.  Next,  he  tied  the  horse  to  a 
tree,  and,  saying  to  me — "Come!"  led  the  way  to  the 
lake. 

We  bought  the  tract,  in  imagination,  and  decided  upon 
the  site  of  our  cottage,  in  the  next  half-hour.  On  the  way 
home  we  called  upon  the  owner  of  the  tract,  paid  a  hun- 
dred dollars  down  to  bind  the  bargain,  and  left  orders 
that  not  another  tree  was  to  be  felled  until  further  notice. 

It  would  have  been  expecting  too  much  of  human  nature 
had  we  been  required  to  go  back  to  the  farm-house  dinner, 
without  driving  again  by  "Our  Land."  The  happy  si- 
lence of  the  second  survey  culminated  in  my  declaration 
and  the  instant  assent  of  my  companion  to  the  same : 

"And  we  will  name  it  '  Sunnybank ' !" 


XLII 

A    CHRISTMAS    REUNION  —  A    MIDNIGHT    WARNING  —  HOW    A 
GOOD  MAN  CAME  TO  "THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  OF  HIS  LIFE" 

"Skies  bright,  and  brightening!"  was  the  clan  watch- 
word, in  passing  along  the  summons  for  a  rally  in  the  old 
home  at  Christmas-time,  1866,  that  should  include  three 
generations  of  the  name  and  blood. 

On  Sunday,  December  23d,  we  attended  church  in  a 
body,  in  morning  and  afternoon.  Not  one  was  missing 
from  the  band  except  my  brother  Herbert,  whose  pro- 
fessional duties  detained  him  over  Sunday.  He  was 
pledged  to  be  with  us  early  on  Monday  morning. 

That  evening,  we  grouped  about  the  fire  in  the  par- 
lor, a  wide  circle  that  left  room  for  the  babyest  of 
the  party  to  disport  themselves  upon  the  rug,  in  the 
glow  of  the  grate  piled  with  cannel  coal.  My  father,  en- 
tering last  of  all,  stooped  to  pick  up  a  granddaughter  and 
kiss  her,  in  remarking: 

"I  had  intended  to  go  down  to  hear  Doctor  Moore  to- 
night. I  am  very  fond  of  him  as  man  and  preacher. 
But" — a  comprehensive  glance  around  the  room,  pointing 
the  demurrer — "you  look  so  comfortable  here  that  I  am 
tempted  to  change  my  mind." 

A  chorus  of  entreaties  broke  forth.  It  had  been  so  long 
since  we  had  had — "all  of  us  together — a  Sunday  evening 
at  home;  there  was  so  much  to  talk  of;  Christmas  was  so 
near;  the  night  was  damp  and  raw;  there  would  be  snow 
by  ten  o'clock,"  etc. — all  in  a  breath,  until  the  dear  man 

408 


A    CHRISTMAS    REUNION 

put  his  hands  to  his  ears,  ready  to  promise  anything  and 
everything,  for  the  sake  of  peace. 

This  was  before  supper,  a  jolly  meal,  over  which  we 
lingered  until  the  mothers  of  the  company  had  to  hustle 
the  younglings  off  to  bed  by  the  time  we  left  the  table. 

Returning  to  the  drawing-room  after  hearing  my  girls' 
prayers,  and  assuaging  their  impatience  at  the  lagging 
flight  of  time,  by  telling  them  that,  in  twenty-two  hours 
more,  they  would  be  hanging  up  their  stockings,  I  found 
my  father  alone.  He  stood  on  the  rug,  looking  down  into 
the  scarlet  depths  of  the  coals,  his  hands  behind  him  and 
his  head  bent — in  thought,  not  in  sadness,  for  he  turned 
a  bright  face  to  me  as  my  voice  awoke  him  from  his 
re  very : 

"'A  penny  for  your  thoughts!'" 

I  said  it  gayly,  laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He 
turned  his  cheek  to  meet  it. 

"My  thoughts  were  running  upon  what  has  kept  them 
busy  all  day.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  con- 
fess it,  but  I  lost  one  'head'  of  Doctor  Hoge's  sermon  this 
afternoon.     I  was  thinking  of — my  children!" 

His  voice  sank  into  a  tender  cadence  it  seldom  took. 
He  was  reckoned  an  undemonstrative  man,  and  he  had 
a  full  strain  of  the  New  England  Puritan  in  his  blood. 

I  waited  to  steady  my  own  voice  before  asking,  softly, 
"And  what  of  them,  father?" 

The  query  was  never  answered.  The  opening  door  let 
in  a  stream  of  happy  humanity — mother,  brothers,  and 
sisters — Mea  and  her  husband,  Horace  and  Percy,  Myrtle 
and  her  fiance,  "Will"  Robertson,  who  would,  ere  long,  be 
one  of  us  in  fact,  as  he  was  now  in  heart.  They  were  full 
of  Christmas  plans  and  talk.  Among  other  items  one  was 
fixed  in  my  memory  by  subsequent  events.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  intervention  of  Sunday,  the  business  of 
decorating  the  house  had  to  be  postponed  until  Monday. 

409 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  evergreens  were  to  be  sent  in  from  the  country  early 
on  the  morrow.  Percy  reported  that  the  snow  had  begun 
to  fall.  If  the  roads  were  heavy  by  morning,  would  the 
countryman  who  had  promised  a  liberal  store  of  running 
cedar,  pine,  and  juniper,  in  addition  to  the  Christmas-tree, 
keep  his  word? 

"I  will  see  that  the  evergreens  are  provided,"  my  father 
laid  the  disquiet  by  saying.  "There  will  be  no  harm  in 
engaging  a  double  supply." 

Then  Mea  went  to  the  piano,  and  we  had  the  olden-time 
Sunday-evening  concert,  all  the  dear  old  hymns  we  could 
recall,  among  them  two  called  for  by  our  father: 


"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way," 


and, 


"There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 

To  weary  wanderers  given; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed, 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast, — 

;Tis  found  alone  in  Heaven!" 

We  sang,  last  of  all,  The  Shining  Shore,  and  talked  of  the 
time  when  the  composer  set  the  MS.  upon  the  piano-rack, 
with  the  ink  hardly  dried  upon  the  score,  and  trial  was 
made  of  the  music  in  that  very  room — could  it  be  just  eleven 
years  ago? 

My  father  left  us  as  the  clock  struck  ten.  My  mother 
lingered  half  an  hour  later.  We  all  knew,  although  none 
of  us  spoke  of  it,  that  he  liked  to  have  a  little  time  for 
devotional  reading  on  Sunday  evening,  before  he  went  to 
bed.  He  had  not  demitted  the  habit  in  fifty-odd  years, 
yet  I  doubt  if  he  had  ever  mentioned,  even  to  his  wife, 
why  he  kept  it  up  and  what  it  meant  to  him. 

Our  mother  told  me  afterward  that  when  she  joined 
him  in  their  chamber,  the  Bible  was  still  open  on  the  stand 

410 


A    CHRISTMAS    REUNION 

before  him.  He  closed  it  at  her  entrance  and  glanced 
around,  a  smile  of  serene  happiness  lighting  up  his  face. 

"We  have  had  a  delightful  Sunday!"  he  observed.  "It 
is  like  renewing  my  youth  to  have  all  the  children  about 
us  once  more." 

He  had  had  his  breakfast  and  gone  down-town,  when 
we  came  into  the  dining-room  next  morning.  At  my  ex- 
clamation of  regretful  surprise,  our  mother  told  us  how 
he  had  hurried  the  meal  for  himself,  pleading  that  he  had 
much  to  attend  to  that  forenoon.  The  snow  was  not  deep, 
but  it  was  sodden  by  the  fine  rain  that  had  succeeded  it 
toward  the  dawn  of  the  gray  December  day,  and  he  feared 
the  evergreens  might  not  be  forthcoming. 

"I  shall  send  a  couple  of  carts  into  the  country  at 
once,"  were  his  parting  words.  "I  would  not  have  the 
children  disappointed  for  ten  times  the  worth  of  the 
evergreens." 

It  was  to  be  a  busy  morning  with  us  all.  As  soon  as 
breakfast  was  dispatched,  the  long  table — pulled  out  to 
its  utmost  limit  to  accommodate  the  tribe — was  cleared 
of  dishes,  plates,  and  cloth,  and  we  fell  to  tying  up  parcels 
for  the  tree,  sorting  bonbons,  and  other  light  tasks.  Mince- 
pies,  concocted  according  to  the  incomparable  recipe 
handed  down  from  mother  to  daughter,  in  the  Montrose 
and  Olney  families,  for  a  century-and-a-half,  had  been 
baked  last  week,  and  loaded  the  pantry-shelves.  My 
mother's  unsurpassable  crullers,  superintended  by  herself 
at  Christmas,  and  at  no  other  season,  were  packed  away 
in  stone  jars;  and,  that  no  distinctive  feature  of  Yuletide 
might  be  missing  from  the  morrow's  dinner,  the  whitest, 
plumpest,  tenderest  sucking  pig  the  market  could  offer,  lay 
at  length  in  a  platter  in  the  store-room.  Before  he  could  go 
into  the  oven,  he  would  be  buttered  from  nose  to  toes, 
and  coated  with  bread-crumbs.  When  he  appeared  on 
the  table,  he  would  be  adorned  with  a  necklace  of  sausages, 

411 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

cranberries  would  fill  out  the  sunken  eyes,  and  a  lemon  be 
thrust  into  his  mouth.  A  mammoth  gobbler,  fattened 
for  the  occasion,  would  support  him  at  the  other  end  of 
the  board. 

I  had  offered  last  Friday  to  make  pumpkin-pies— the 
genuine  New  England  brand,  such  as  my  father  had  eaten 
at  Thanksgiving  in  the  Dorchester  homestead. 

The  colored  cooks  could  not  compass  the  delicacy.  He 
had  sent  home  four  bouncing  pumpkins  on  Saturday,  and 
two  had  been  pared,  eviscerated,  and  stewed.  I  sat  at  the 
far  end  of  the  table,  beating,  seasoning,  and  tasting.  My 
mother  was  filling  candy-bags  at  the  other,  when  Myrtle 
rallied  her  upon  not  tasting  the  confectionery,  of  which 
she  was  extravagantly  fond. 

"Mother  is  saving  up  her  appetite  for  the  Christmas 
pig!"  she  asserted. 

"I  never  eat  sweets  when  I  have  a  headache,"  was  the 
answer.     "I  did  not  sleep  well  last  night." 

This  led  to  her  account  of  a  "queer  fright"  she  had 
had  at  midnight,  or  thereabouts.  Awakened  from  her  first 
sound  sleep  by  the  unaccountable  thrill  of  alarm  each  of 
us  has  felt,  in  the  impression  that  some  one  or  something 
that  has  no  right  to  be  there,  is  in  the  darkened  chamber, 
she  lay  still  with  beating  heart  and  listened  for  further 
proof  of  the  intrusion.  In  a  few  minutes  she  heard  a  faint 
rustle  that  ran  from  the  farthest  window  toward  her  bed, 
and  passed  to  the  door  leading  into  the  hall.  Thoroughly 
startled,  she  shook  n^  father's  shoulder  and  whispered  to 
him  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  room.  He  sprang  up, 
lighted  the  gas,  and  made  a  thorough  search  of  the  cham- 
ber and  the  dressing-room.  The  door  was  locked,  and, 
besides  themselves,  there  was  no  occupant  of  the  apart- 
ment. He  had  fallen  asleep  again,  when  she  heard  the 
same  rustling  noise,  louder  and  more  definite  than  before. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  direction  of  the  movement. 

412 


A   MIDNIGHT   WARNING 

It  began  at  the  window,  swept  by  the  bed,  and  was  lost 
at  the  door.  The  terrified  wife  again  awoke  her  husband, 
and  he  made  the  round  a  second  time,  with  the  same  result 
as  before. 

When  the  mysterious  movement  seemed  to  brush  her 
at  the  third  coming,  she  aroused  her  companion  in  an  agony 
of  nervousness: 

"I  am  terribly  ashamed  of  my  foolishness,"  she  told  him, 
shivering  with  nameless  fears;  "but  there  really  is  some- 
thing here,  now!"  He  was,  as  I  have  said  in  a  former  part 
of  my  true  story,  usually  so  intolerant  of  nervous  whimsies 
that  we  forbore  to  express  them  in  his  hearing.  He  had 
mellowed  and  sweetened  marvellously  within  the  last  few 
years,  as  rare  vintages  are  sure  to  ripen.  Arising  now, 
with  a  good-humored  laugh,  he  made  a  third  exploration 
of  the  premises,  and  with  no  better  result.  When  he  lay 
down  again,  he  put  his  hand  affectionately  upon  my  moth- 
er's arm  with  a  soothing  word: 

"I  will  hold  you  fast!  You  are  the  most  precious  thing 
in  the  house.     Neither  burglar  nor  bogie  shall  get  you." 

"What  was  it?"  we  asked. 

"Oh,  probably  the  wind  blowing  the  shade,  or  making 
free  with  something  else  that  was  loose.  It  was  a  stormy 
night.  We  agreed,  this  morning,  that  it  must  have  been 
that." 

She  spoke  carelessly,  and  we  took  the  incident  as  little 
to  heart.  Passing  through  the  hall,  awhile  later,  I  espied 
my  maid  Ellen,  who  had  lived  with  me  for  five  years, 
whispering  with  a  mulatto  woman  in  a  corner.  They  fell 
apart  at  seeing  me,  and  Ellen  followed  me  to  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Rhoda  was  saying  that  the  colored  people  think  what 
happened  last  night  was  a  warnin',"  she  observed,  with 
affected  lightness.  "They  are  awful  superstitious,  ma'am, 
ain't  they?" 

413 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Very  superstitious  and  very  ignorant!"  I  returned,  se- 
verely. 

The  trifling  episode  was  gone,  like  a  vapor  passing  from 
a  mirror,  before  my  brother  Herbert  appeared.  He  had 
arisen  at  daybreak,  driven  to  Petersburg,  and  taken  there 
the  train  to  Richmond,  arriving  by  nine  o'clock. 

At  the  same  hour  our  father  reached  his  office.  I  have 
heard  the  story  of  his  walk  down-town  so  minutely  de- 
scribed that  I  can  trace  each  step.  It  was  more  than  a 
mile  from  his  house  to  the  office.  There  were  no  street- 
cars or  omnibuses  in  the  city,  at  that  time.  Sometimes 
he  drove  to  his  place  of  business;  sometimes  he  rode  on 
horseback.  Generally,  he  chose  to  walk.  He  was  a  fine 
horseman  and  a  fearless  driver,  from  his  youth  up.  At 
sixty-eight  he  carried  himself  as  erect  as  at  thirty,  and 
made  less  of  tramping  miles  in  all  weathers  than  men  of 
half  his  age  thought  of  pacing  a  dozen  squares  on  a  sunny 
day.  As  he  had  reminded  his  wife,  in  excusing  his  hurried 
breakfast,  there  were  errands,  many  and  important,  to  be 
looked  after.  He  stopped  at  Pizzini's,  the  noted  con- 
fectioner of  the  town,  to  interview  that  dignitary  in  per- 
son, anent  a  cake  of  noble  proportions  and  brave  with 
ornate  icing— Christmas  fruit-cake — of  Pizzini's  own  com- 
position, for  which  the  order  was  given  a  week  ago.  To 
the  man  of  sweets  he  said  that  nothing  must  hinder  the 
delivery  of  the  cake  beyond  that  evening. 

"We  are  planning  a  royal,  old-fashioned  family  Christ- 
mas," he  subjoined,  "and  there  must  be  no  disappoint- 
ments." 

The  evergreens  were  ordered  as  stringently.  Two  cart- 
loads, as  he  had  said,  and  two  more  Christmas-trees,  in 
case  one  was  not  satisfactory.  "There  must  be  no  dis- 
appointments." 

Not  far  from  Pizzini's  he  met  Doctor  Haxall,  also 
"Christmasing."    The  two  silver-haired  men  shook  hands, 

414 


"THE    HAPPIEST    DAY    OF    HIS    LIFE" 

standing  in  the  damp  snow  on  the  corner,  and  exchanged 
the  compliments  of  the  season. 

"What  has  come  to  you?"  queried  the  doctor,  eying 
his  friend  curiously.  "You  are  renewing  your  youth. 
You  have  the  color,  the  step,  and  the  eyes  of  a  boy!" 

"Doctor!"  letting  his  hand  drop  upon  the  other's  shoul- 
der, "  to-morrow  will  be  the  happiest  day  of  my  life!  After 
four  terrible  years  of  war  and  separation,  I  am  to  have  in 
the  old  home  all  my  children  and  grandchildren — a  united 
and  loving  family.  It  will  be  the  first  time  in  eight  years ! 
My  cup  runneth  over!" 

He  strode  into  his  office  with  the  springing  step  that 
had  brought  him  all  the  long  mile  and  a  half;  spoke  cheer- 
ily to  two  or  three  employees  who  were  on  hand ;  remarked 
upon  the  weather,  and  his  confidence  that  we  would  have 
a  fine  day  to-morrow,  and  laid  aside  his  overcoat  and  hat. 
Then  he  stepped  to  the  outer  door  to  issue  an  order  to 
two  colored  men  standing  there,  began  to  speak,  put  his 
hand  to  his  head,  and  fell  forward.  The  men  caught  him, 
saved  him  from  falling,  and  supported  him  to  a  chair. 
He  pointed  to  the  door,  and  spoke  one  word: 

"Horace!" 

My  brother  was  his  partner  in  business,  and  he  could 
not  be  far  away.  The  messenger  met  him  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  door.  The  dulling  eyes  brightened  at  sight 
of  him;  with  an  inarticulate  murmur,  the  stricken  man 
raised  his  hand  to  his  head,  to  indicate  the  seat  of  pain, 
leaned  back  upon  the  strong  young  arms  that  held  him, 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

He  was  still  breathing  when  they  brought  him  home. 
Doctor  Haxall  had  galloped  on  ahead  of  the  carriage 
containing  him  and  the  attendants,  to  prepare  us  meas- 
urably for  what  was  coming.  The  unconscious  master  of 
the  home  was  brought  through  the  hall  between  banks 
of  evergreens,  delivered  in  obedience  to  his  order  issued 

415 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

but  three  hours  earlier.  Two  tall  Christmas-trees  and  three 
wagon-loads  of  running  cedar,  pine,  and  spruce  heaped 
the  floor,  and  were  pushed  aside  hastily  by  the  servants  to 
make  way  for  the  mournful  procession. 

He  did  not  speak  or  move  after  they  laid  him  upon  his 
own  bed. 

One  more  hour  of  anguished  waiting,  and  we  knew  that 
he  had  entered  upon  the  " happiest  day  of  his  life." 


XLIII 

TWO  BRIDALS — A  BIRTH  AND  A  PASSING — "MY  LITTLE  LOVE" 
"DRIFTING    OUT" — A   NONPAREIL   PARISH 

In  October,  1867,  I  had  the  great  happiness  of  seeing 
my  favorite  brother  married  to  the  woman  he  had  loved 
so  long  and  so  faithfully  that  the  marriage  was  the  fitting 
and  only  sequel  the  romance  of  the  Civil  War  could  have. 
From  the  day  of  our  coming  to  Newark,  she,  who  was  now 
my  sister,  then  a  school-girl,  had  established  herself  in  our 
hearts.  She  was  my  sister  Alice's  most  intimate  friend,  and, 
after  Alice  left  us,  glided  into  the  vacant  place  naturally. 
With  the  delicacy  and  discretion  characteristic  of  a  fine 
and  noble  nature,  she  never,  during  those  dreary  years 
of  separation  and  silence,  alluded,  in  her  talks  with  me, 
to  the  tacit  "understanding"  existing  between  herself  and 
my  brother.  When  he  visited  us  immediately  upon  his 
liberation  from  Fort  Delaware,  it  was  evident  that  both 
of  the  unacknowledged  lovers  took  up  the  association 
where  it  had  been  severed  four  years  ago. 

They  were  wedded  on  October  5th.  The  next  day  Mr. 
(now  "Doctor")  Terhune,  the  three  little  girls,  and  my- 
self, with  their  nurse,  took  the  train  for  Richmond  to  as- 
sist in  the  preparations  for  the  marriage  of  Myrtle  and 
"Will"  Robertson.  The  newly  wedded  pair  returned 
from  their  bridal  tour  in  season  to  witness  the  second 
marriage,  on  October  17th. 

On  February  4,  1869,  my  little  Myrtle  opened  her 
beautiful  eyes  upon  the  world  in  which  she  was  to  have 

417 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

an  abiding-place  for  so  short  a  time  that  the  fast,  bright 
months  of  her  sojourn  are  as  a  dream  to  me  at  this  distance 
from  that  spring  and  summer.  She  was  a  splendid  baby, 
finely  developed,  perfect  in  feature,  as  in  form,  and  grew 
so  rapidly  in  size  and  strength  that  my  fashionable  friends 
pointed  to  her  as  a  lively  refutation  of  my  theory  that 
''bottle  babies"  were  never  so  strong  as  those  who  had 
their  natural  nourishment.  A  tedious  spell  of  intermittent 
fever  that  laid  hold  of  me,  when  she  was  but  two  months 
old,  deprived  her  of  her  rightful  nutriment.  When  she 
was  four  months  old,  we  removed  for  the  summer  to 
Sunnybank,  and  set  aside  one  cow  expressly  for  her  use. 
She  throve  gloriously  until,  in  September,  dentition  sapped 
her  vitality,  and,  as  I  had  dreaded  might  ensue  upon  the 
system  of  artificial  feeding,  none  of  the  various  substitutes 
for  nature's  own  provision  for  the  young  of  the  human 
race,  were  assimilated  by  the  digestive  organs.  On  the 
last  day  of  the  month  she  passed  into  safer  hands  than 
ours. 

I  have  told  the  story  of  our  Alice's  wonderful  life  in  My 
Little  Love.  Now  that  my  mind  and  nerves  have  regained 
a  more  healthful  tone  than  they  could  claim  during  the 
months  when  I  found  a  sad  solace  in  the  portraiture  of  our 
lost  darling,  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  dwell  at  length  upon 
the  rich  endowments  of  mind  and  heart  that  made  the 
ten-year-old  girl  the  idol  of  her  home,  and  a  favorite  with 
playmates  and  acquaintances.  Although  thirty-five  years 
have  set  that  beautiful  life  among  the  things  of  a  former 
generation,  I  still  meet  those  who  recollect  and  speak  of 
her  as  one  might  of  a  round  and  perfect  star. 

We,  her  parents,  knew  her  for  what  she  was,  while  she 
was  spared  to  glorify  our  home.  Once  and  again,  we 
congratulated  ourselves  that  we  comprehended  the  value 
of  our  treasure  while  we  held  it — did  not  wait  for  the  bright- 

418 


A    BIRTH    AND    A    PASSING 

ening  of  the  fleeting  blessing.  When  He  who  bestowed 
the  good  and  perfect  gift  recalled  her  to  Himself,  we 
thanked  Him,  from  the  sincere  depths  of  broken  hearts, 
that  He  had  deemed  us  worthy  to  keep  it  for  Him  for 
almost  eleven  years. 

She  went  from  us  January  1,  1874. 

By  the  time  the  spring  opened,  repeated  hemorrhages 
from  lungs  I  had  been  vain  enough  to  believe  were  ex- 
ceptionally strong,  had  reduced  me  to  a  pitiable  state  of 
weakness. 

If  I  have  not  spoken,  at  every  stage  of  the  narrative  of 
these  late  years,  of  the  unutterable  goodness  of  Newark 
friends  and  parishioners,  it  is  not  that  this  had  abated 
in  degree,  or  weakened  in  quality.  In  all  our  afflictions 
they  bore  the  part  of  comforters  to  whom  our  losses  were 
theirs.  Strong  arms  and  hearts  in  our  hours  of  weakness 
were  ever  at  our  call.  When  it  became  apparent  that  my 
health  was  seriously  impaired,  the  "  people,"  with  one  voice, 
insisted  that  Doctor  Terhune  should  take  a  vacation  of 
uncertain  length,  and  go  with  me  to  the  Adirondacks  for 
as  long  a  time  as  might  be  needed  to  restore  me  to  health 
and  vigor. 

I  had  worked  hard  for  the  past  five  or  six  years.  Be- 
sides my  literary  engagements,  which  were  many,  includ- 
ing the  arrangement  of  material  for,  and  publication  of, 
Common  Sense  in  the  Household,  I  was  deep  in  church  and 
charitable  work,  and  had  a  large  visiting-list.  Little  ac- 
count was  made,  at  that  date,  of  nervous  prostration.  I 
should  have  laughed  that  little  to  scorn  had  it  been  in- 
timated by  physician  or  friend  that  I  was  a  victim  to  the 
disorder.  I  know  now,  to  a  certainty,  that  I  was  so  near 
the  "verge"  that  a  touch  would  have  toppled  me  over. 
My  very  ignorance  of  the  peril  may  have  saved  me  from 
the  fall. 

We  were  four  months  in  the  Adirondacks.     Except  that 

28  419 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  sore  lungs  drew  in  the  resinous  airs  more  freely  than 
they  had  taken  in  the  fog-laden  salt  air  of  the  lowlands, 
and  that  I  slept  better,  I  could  not  discern  any  improve- 
ment in  my  condition  when  the  shortening  and  cooling 
days  called  us  southward. 

In  July,  a  telegram  from  Richmond  had  informed  me  of 
my  mother's  death.  So  battered  and  worn  was  I  that 
the  full  import  of  the  tidings  did  not  reach  my  mind  and 
heart,  until  my  brother  Herbert  sought  in  the  balsam 
forests  relief  from  the  cares  of  home  and  parish,  and  we 
talked  together  of  our  common  loss  in  the  quiet  woods 
fringing  the  lake.  I  shall  never  forget  the  strange  chill 
that  froze  my  heart  during  one  of  these  talks,  when  I 
bethought  myself  that  I  now  belonged  to  the  "passing 
generation."  My  mother's  going  had  struck  down  a  bar- 
rier which  kept  off  the  cold  blast  from  the  boundless  Sea 
of  Eternity.  I  could  not  shake  off  the  fancy  for  many 
weeks.  It  recurred  to  me  in  wakeful  midnights,  and  in 
the  enforced  rest  succeeding  toilful  days,  until  it  threat- 
ened to  become  an  obsession.  Instead  of  accepting  this 
and  other,  to  me,  novel  and  distressing  sensations,  as  feat- 
ures of  confirmed  invalidism,  I  fought  them  with  all  the 
might  of  a  will  that  was  not  used  to  submission. 

The  next  winter  was  one  of  ceaseless  conflict.  I  grew 
insanely  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  my  failing  health. 
When,  after  walking  quickly  up  the  stairs,  or  climbing  the 
hill  from  the  lower  town  to  our  home,  a  fit  of  coughing 
brought  the  blood  to  my  lips,  I  stanched  it  with  my 
handkerchief  and  kept  the  incident  to  myself.  I  went 
into  a  shop,  or  turned  a  corner,  to  avoid  meeting  any  one 
who  would  be  likely  to  question  me  as  to  my  health,  or  re- 
mark upon  my  pallor.  At  home,  the  routine  of  work 
knew  no  break;  I  attended  and  presided  at  charitable  and 
parish  meetings,  as  if  nervous  prostration  were  a  figment 
of  the  hypochondriacal  imagination. 

420 


"DRIFTING    OUT" 

So  well  did  I  play  the  part  to  the  members  of  my  own 
household,  that  my  husband  himself  believed  me  to  be 
on  the  low,  if  not  the  high,  road  to  recovery.  He  was  as 
busy  in  his  line  as  I  pretended  to  be  in  mine,  and  certain 
projects  affecting  the  future  welfare  of  his  parish  were  on 
foot,  enlisting  his  lively  interest.  How  far  the  pious  de- 
ception may  have  gone,  was  not  to  be  tested.  The  active 
intervention  of  one  plain-spoken  woman  was  the  pivotal 
point  of  our  two  lives. 

I  mentioned,  some  chapters  back,  the  call  of  one  of  my 
best  friends  and  the  best  neighbor  I  ever  had,  on  the  day 
of  Mr.  Lincoln's  death.  Although  we  had  removed,  by 
medical  advice,  to  the  higher  part  of  the  city,  and  a  full 
mile  away  from  her  home,  she  never  relaxed  her  neigh- 
borly kindness.  I  had  not  been  aware  of  her  close  sur- 
veillance of  myself;  still  less  did  I  suspect  at  what  con- 
clusion she  had  arrived.  She  had  reasons,  cogent  and  sad, 
for  surveillance  and  conclusions.  Several  members  of  her 
own  family  had  died  of  consumption,  and  she  was  familiar 
with  the  indications  of  the  Great  White  Plague.  When 
she  came,  day  after  day,  to  take  me  to  drive  at  noon,  when, 
as  she  phrased  it,  "the  world  was  properly  aired,"  and, 
when  she  could  not  come,  sent  carriage  and  coachman 
with  the  request  that  I  would  use  the  conveyance  at  pleas- 
ure— I  was  touched  and  a  little  amused  at  what  was,  I 
conceived,  exaggerated  solicitude  for  me,  whose  indisposi- 
tion was  only  temporary.  Meanwhile,  her  quick  eyes 
and  keen  wits  were  busy.  Not  a  change  of  color,  not  a 
flutter  of  the  breath  escaped  her,  and  in  the  fulness  of 
time  she  opened  her  mouth  and  spoke. 

My  husband  had  a  habit,  of  many  years'  standing,  of 
winding  up  a  busy,  harassing  day  by  dropping  into  the 
home  of  our  whilom  neighbors,  and  having  a  tranquillizing 
cigar  with  the  husband.  I  never  expected  him  home  be- 
fore midnight  when  he  did  this,  and  on  one  particular 

421 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

evening,  knowing  that  he  was  at  the  B/s,  and  feeling 
more  than  usually  fatigued,  I  went  to  bed  at  ten.  Awak- 
ened, by-and-by,  by  the  glare  of  a  gas-burner  full  in  my 
face,  I  unclosed  my  eyes  upon  a  visage  so  full  of  anxiety, 
so  haggard  with  emotion,  that  I  started  up  in  alarm. 

"Don't  be  frightened!"  he  said,  soothingly.  "Nothing 
has  happened.  But,  is  it  true  that  you  are  so  ill  as  Mrs. 
B.  would  have  me  believe?    And  have  I  been  blind?" 

The  energetic  little  lady  had,  as  she  confessed  to  me 
when  I  charged  her  with  it,  freed  her  burdened  mind  with- 
out reserve  or  fear: 

"  It  was  time  somebody  opened  his  eyes,  and  I  felt  my- 
self called  to  do  it." 

Within  twenty-four  hours  a  consultation  of  physicians 
was  held. 

They,  too,  made  no  secret  of  their  verdict.  The  apex 
of  the  right  lung  was  gone,  and  it  was  doubtf  ul  whether  any- 
thing could  prevent  the  rapid  waste  of  both.  When  Doctor 
Terhune,  ever  a  stanch  believer  in  the  efficacy  of  change 
of  air  and  place,  declared  his  determination  to  take  me 
abroad,  without  the  delay  of  a  month,  two  of  the  Galens 
affirmed  that  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  "had  not  three 
months  of  life  left  to  me,  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances." 

The  ghastly  truth  was  withheld  from  me  at  the  time. 
I  was  told  that  I  must  not  spend  another  winter  in  Newark, 
and  that  we  would,  if  possible,  go  to  the  south  of  Europe 
for  the  winter.  "To  go  abroad"  had  been  the  dream  of 
my  life.  Yet,  under  the  anticipation  of  the  labor  and  bustle 
of  closing  the  house,  perhaps  breaking  up  our  home  for 
good,  and  going  forth  into  a  new  world,  my  strength  failed 
utterly.  Now  that  my  husband  knew  the  worst,  there 
was  no  more  need  of  keeping  up  appearances.  I  became 
aware  that  I  had,  all  along,  been  holding  on  to  life  with 
will-power  that  had  no  physical  underpinning.     Each  day 

422 


"DRIFTING    OUT" 

found  me  weaker  and  more  spiritless.  The  idea  that  I 
was  clinging  to  a  shred  of  existence  by  a  thinning  thread, 
seized  upon  me  like  a  nightmare.  And  I  was  tired!  tired! 
tired! 

There  came  a  day  when  I  resolved  to  let  go  and  drift 
out. 

That  was  the  way  I  put  it  to  my  husband  when  he  ap- 
proached my  bed,  from  which  I  never  arose  until  nine  or 
ten  o'clock,  and  inquired  how  I  felt. 

"I  am  worn  out,  holding  on!"  I  informed  him.  "I  shall 
not  get  up  to-day.  All  that  is  needed  to  end  the  useless 
fight  is  to  let  go  and  drift  out.     I  shall  drift!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  looked  at  me. 
Not  gloomily,  but  thoughtfully.  There  was  not  a  sus- 
picion of  sentimentality  in  the  gaze,  or  in  the  tone  in  which 
he  remarked,  reflectively: 

"I  appreciate  fully  what  you  mean,  and  how  hard  it  is 
for  you  to  keep  on  living.  And  I  say  nothing  of  the  in- 
convenience it  would  cause  your  girls  and  myself  were  you 
to  die.  It  is  asking  a  great  deal  of  you — "  (bringing  out 
the  words  slowly  and  with  seeming  reluctance).  "But  if 
you  could  bring  yourself  to  live  until  Bert  is  through  col- 
lege, it  would  be  a  great  kindness  all  around.  The  boy  will 
go  to  the  devil  without  his  mother.  Think  of  it — won't 
you?  Just  hold  on  until  your  boy  is  safely  launched  in 
life." 

With  that  he  left  me  to  "think  of  it." 

My  boy!  My  baby!  Just  four  years  old,  on  my  last 
birthday!  The  man-child,  of  whom  I  was  wont  to  say 
proudly  that  he  was  the  handsomest  birthday  gift  I  ever 
had,  and  that  no  young  man  could  ever  pay  his  mother  a 
more  delicate  and  gracious  compliment  than  he  had  paid 
me  in  timing  his  advent  upon  December  21st.  The  baby 
that  had  Alice's  eyes  and  brunette  coloring!  I  lay  still, 
staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  doing  the  fastest  thinking  I 

423 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  ever  accomplished.  I  saw  the  motherless  boy,  sensi- 
tive and  high-spirited,  affectionate  and  clever,  the  butt 
of  rude  lads,  and  misinterpreted  by  brutish  teachers;  ex- 
posed to  fiery  temptations  at  school  and  in  college,  and 
yielding  to  them  for  the  lack  of  a  mother's  training  and 
the  segis  of  a  mother's  love. 

"The  boy  will  go  to  the  devil  without  his  mother!" 

Hard  words  those,  and  curtly  uttered,  but  they  struck 
home  as  coaxings  and  arguments  and  pettings  could  not 
have  done. 

In  half  an  hour  my  husband  looked  in  upon  me  again. 
I  intercepted  remark  or  query  by  saying: 

"Will  you  ring  the  bell  for  Rose  to  help  me  dress?  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  hold  on  for  a  while  longer." 

The  tactful  ruse  had  given  me  a  new  lease  of  life. 

One  more  circumstance  connected  with  our  first  foreign 
trip  may  be  worth  mentioning  here. 

During  the  summer  of  1855,  which  I  spent  in  Boston 
and  the  vicinity,  I  consulted  Ossian  Ashley  with  regard 
to  a  project  that  had  engaged  my  mind  for  some  months — 
viz.,  indulging  my  long-cherished  desire  to  visit  Europe, 
and  to  spend  a  year  there.  There  was  no  reason,  that  I 
could  see,  why  I  should  wait  longer  to  put  the  plan  into 
execution.  My  parents  were  living,  and  were  in  the  prime 
of  healthy  maturity;  I  had  plenty  of  money  of  my  own, 
and,  if  I  had  not,  my  father  would  cheerfully  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  trip.  We  discussed  the  scheme  at  length, 
and  with  growing  zest.  Then  he  made  the  proposition  that 
his  wife  should  accompany  me,  taking  her  boy  and  girl 
along  (she  had  but  two  children  then),  and  that  he  would 
join  us  in  time  to  journey  with  us  for  a  few  months,  and 
bring  us  home. 

With  this  well-digested  scheme  in  my  mind,  I  returned 
to  Richmond.  There  I  met  with  strenuous  opposition 
from  an  unexpected  quarter: 

424 


A    NONPAREIL    PARISH 

"If  you  will  stay  at  home  and  marry  me,  I  guarantee  to 
take  you  abroad  within  seven  years/'  was  one  of  the  few 
promises  the  speaker  ever  broke  to  me. 

Just  twenty-one  years  from  the  day  in  which  Ossian 
Ashley  and  I  blocked  out  the  route  his  wife  and  I  would 
take  on  the  other  side,  I  looked  into  his  New  York  office 
to  say  that  we  had  engaged  passage  for  Liverpool  for 
October  15th,  and  that  we  expected  to  be  absent  for  two 
years  at  the  least. 

His  look  was  something  to  be  remembered.  His  son 
was  in  a  Berlin  University,  and  Mrs.  Ashley  and  her 
two  young  daughters  would  sail  on  September  loth  for 
Liverpool,  intending  to  go  thence  to  Germany.  They 
would  remain  there  for  two  years. 

On  the  morrow,  we  had  a  letter  from  him,  notifying  us 
that  they  had  exchanged  the  date  of  sailing  for  October  15th, 
and  the  boat  for  the  City  of  Berlin,  in  which  we  were  to  sail. 

"A  trifling  delay  of  twenty-one  years!"  observed  my  hus- 
band, philosophically.  "If  all  human  projects  came  as  near 
prompt  fulfilment  as  that,  there  would  be  fewer  grumblers." 

We  took  with  us  our  three  children  and  my  maid,  who 
had  been  the  boy's  nurse.  In  Loiterings  in  Pleasant  Paths, 
written  in  part  while  we  sojourned  abroad,  she  figures  as 
"The  Invaluable."  Never  was  title  more  justly  earned. 
In  that  book  the  events  of  the  next  two  years  are  recorded 
at  greater  length  than  they  could  be  set  down  here. 

I  made  no  note  there  of  the  pain  that  seemed  to  pluck 
out  our  heartstrings,  consequent  upon  our  parting  with 
our  Newark  parish  and  fellow-citizens.  We  had  grown 
with  the  place,  which  was  a  mere  village,  eighteen  years 
ago,  by  comparison  with  the  large  city  we  left.  Her  in- 
terests were  ours.  Doctor  Terhune  was  identified  with 
her  public  and  private  enterprises,  and  known  by  sight 
and  by  reputation  throughout  the  town  and  its  environs. 
His  church  stubbornly  refused  to  consider  his  resignation 

425 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

as  final.  He  might  have  an  indefinite  leave  of  absence 
— two,  four,  six  years — provided  he  would  engage  to  come 
to  them  when  he  could  bring  me  back  well.  He  wisely 
refused  to  listen  to  the  proposal.  The  business  quarter  of 
the  thriving  city  was  encroaching  upon  the  neighborhood 
of  the  church.  It  was  likely  to  be  abandoned  as  "a  resi- 
dential locality"  within  a  few  years.  In  which  event,  the 
removal  of  building  and  congregation  would  be  a  neces- 
sity. The  history  of  such  changes  in  the  character  of  sec- 
tions of  fast-enlarging  cities  is  familiar  to  all  urbanites. 
It  was  essential,  in  the  opinion  of  the  retiring  incumbent, 
that  the  church  should  select  another  pastor  speedily,  if 
it  would  retain  its  integrity  and  identity. 

The  love  and  loyalty  that  had  enveloped  us,  like  a  vitaliz- 
ing atmosphere,  for  almost  a  score  of  winters  and  summers, 
wrapped  us  warmly  to  the  last.  There  were  public  re- 
ceptions and  private  house-parties,  by  the  dozen,  and 

"Partings  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  the  heart/' — 

and  a  gathering  on  the  steamer  on  sailing-day  that  made 
us  homesick  in  anticipation  of  the  actual  rending  of  ties 
that  were  living  flesh  and  blood — and  we  were  afloat. 

As  one  of  the  leading  men  in  the  church  shook  my  hus- 
band's hand,  in  leaving  the  deck,  he  pressed  into  it  an 
envelope.  We  were  well  down  the  bay  when  it  was 
opened.  It  contained  a  supplementary  letter  of  credit 
of  three  thousand  dollars — the  farewell  gift  of  a  few  men 
whose  names  accompanied  the  token. 

"Faithful  to  the  end!'7  murmured  the  recipient,  reading 
the  short  list  through  mists  that  thickened  between  his 
eyes  and  the  paper.  "Had  ever  another  man  such  a 
parish?" 

I  answered  "No!"  then,  emphatically. 

My  response  would  be  the  same  to-day. 

426 


XLIV 

TWO   YEARS   OVERSEAS — LIFE   IN   ROME   AND   GENEVA 

The  main  events  of  the  two  years  spent  abroad  by  our 
small  family,  including  "The  Invaluable,"  as  we  soon  came 
to  call  Rose  O'Neill,  are  set  down  in  Loiterings  in  Pleasant 
Paths,  a  chatty  volume  of  travel  and  sojourn,  published 
soon  after  our  return  to  America.  The  private  record  of 
those  two  dozen  months  would  far  surpass  the  book  in 
bulk.  It  will  never  be  written  except  as  it  is  stamped 
upon  "the  fleshly  tables  of  the  hearts"  of  those  who  lived 
and  loved,  studied,  and  revelled  with  us. 

We  had  meant  to  pass  the  first  winter  in  Paris,  but  the 
most  beautiful  city  of  the  world  was  unfriendly  to  my  sore 
and  aching  lung.  After  an  experiment  of  six  weeks,  we 
broke  camp  and  sped  southward.  Ten  days  in  the  fair 
Florence  I  was  to  learn  in  after  years  to  love  as  a  second 
home,  repeated  the  doleful  tale  of  fog,  rain,  and  chill  that 
pierced  our  bones. 

An  old  Richmond  friend,  with  whom  I  had  had  many 
a  jolly  frolic  in  my  early  girlhood,  was  now  Reverend 
Doctor  Taylor,  a  resident  of  Rome.  After  the  ex- 
change of  several  letters,  we  adopted  his  friendly  advice 
that  we  should  give  the  Eternal  City  a  trial  as  the  refuge 
we  sought  —  so  much  less  hopefully  than  at  first,  that  I 
entreated  my  husband,  on  the  rainy  evening  of  our  arrival 
in  Rome,  not  to  push  inquiries  further,  but  to  let  me  go 
home,  and  die  in  comfort  there. 

Doctor  Taylor  had  ordered  rooms  for  us  in  a  family 

427 


MARION    HARLAND'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

hotel  well  spoken  of  by  Americans,  and  was  at  the  station 
to  conduct  us  to  our  quarters. 

I  was  deposited  upon  a  sofa,  when  my  wraps  were  re- 
moved, and  lay  there,  fairly  wearied  out  by  the  railway 
journey.  The  room  was  tireless  and  carpetless.  I  could  feel 
the  chill  of  the  stone  flooring  and  the  bare  walls  through 
the  blankets  in  which  I  was  swathed  by  distressful  Rose, 
who  "guessed  these  Eyetalians  hadn't  the  first  notion  of 
what  American  comfort  is!"  Three  long  French  casements 
afforded  a  full  view  of  leaden,  low-stooping  skies  and 
straight  sheets  of  rain.  When  a  fire  of  sticks,  besmeared 
with  resin,  was  coaxed  into  a  spiteful  flare,  the  smoke 
puffed  as  spitefully  into  the  room,  and  drifted  up  to  the 
ceiling  twenty  feet  overhead.  Invited  by  my  ever- 
hospitable  husband  to  seat  himself  near  an  apology  for  a 
cheery  hearthstone — less  pitiful  to  him  after  his  ten  years' 
residence  in  Italy  than  to  us,  the  new  arrivals — our  friend 
fell  into  social  chat  of  ways  and  means.  The  carpet  would 
be  down  to-morrow;  the  sun  would  shine  to-morrow;  I 
would  be  rested  to-morrow. 

He  broke  off  with  a  genial  laugh  there,  to  impart  a  bit 
of  information  we  were  to  prove  true  to  the  utmost  during 
the  next  year: 

"Everything  is  'domano'  with  Italians.  I  think  the 
babies  are  born  with  it  in  their  mouths.  One  falls  into 
the  habit  with  mortifying  ease." 

I  am  afraid  I  dozed  for  a  few  minutes,  lulled  by  the  pat- 
ter of  rain  and  the  low-toned  talk  going  on  at  the  far  (lit- 
erally) side  of  the  apartment.  A  lively  visitor  used  to 
wonder  if  we  "could  see  across  it  on  cloudy  days  without 
an  opera-glass." 

This  was  the  next  sentence  that  reached  me: 

"Thus  far,  we  have  met  with  discouragement.  March  is 
the  most  trying  month  to  weak  lungs  in  America.  And 
ever  since  we  landed  in  Liverpool  we  have  had  nothing  but 

428 


LIFE    IN    ROME    AND    GENEVA 

March  weather.  I  think  now  we  shall  push  on  to  Algiers" 
— glancing  ruefully  at  the  murky  windows.  "Upon  one 
thing  I  am  determined — to  find  a  land  where  there  is  no 
March,  as  we  know  the  month.  For  one  year  I  want  to 
secure  that  for  my  wife's  breathing  apparatus." 

"I  know  of  but  one  such  region."  The  answer  was  in 
the  slight  drawl  natural  to  the  George  Taylor  I  used  to 
know;  the  speaker  stared  sombrely  into  the  peevish  fire. 

"And  that?"  interrogated  the  other,  eagerly. 

The  drawl  had  now  a  nasal  touch  befitting  the  question : 

"  '  No  chilling  winds,  no  poisonous  breath 
Can  reach  that  healthful  shore!'" 

"Heavens  and  earth,  man!  That  is  just  where  I  don't 
want  her  to  go  yet!     Nor  for  many  a  long  year!" 

The  laugh  I  could  not  suppress  helped  to  warm  and 
brighten  us  all.  Do  any  of  us  suspect  how  much  we  owe 
to  the  funny  side  of  life? 

Thus  began  my  Roman  winter.  With  " domano"  came 
the  sunshine  and  the  carpet,  and  the  first  of  the  hundred 
drives  in  and  about  the  storied  city,  that  were  to  bring 
healing  and  vigor,  such  as  even  my  optimistic  husband 
had  scarcely  dared  to  anticipate.  That  I  am  alive  upon 
this  wonderful,  beautiful  earth  at  this  good  hour,  I  owe, 
under  God,  to  those  divine  four  months  among  the  Seven 
Hills.  Doctor  Terhune  had  received  the  appointment  to 
the  Chaplaincy  of  the  American  Chapel  in  Rome  before 
we  left  Paris.  He  decided  to  accept  it  within  a  week  after 
our  arrival  in  the  Eternal  City.  It  was  a  cosey  corner  for 
pastor  and  flock — that  little  church  in  Piazza  Poli,  belong- 
ing to  an  Italian  Protestant  corporation,  and  occupied  by 
them  for  half  of  each  Sunday,  by  American  tourists  and 
transient  residents  of  Rome  for  the  other  half.  All  my 
memories  of  the  wonderful  and  bewitching  winter  are 
happy.     None  have  a  gentler  charm  than  those  which  re- 

429 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

new  the  scenes  of  quiet  Sunday  forenoons  when  visitors 
from  the  dear  home-land,  who  had  never  before  looked 
upon  the  faces  of  their  fellow-worshippers,  gathered  by 
common  consent  in  the  place  "where  prayer  was  wont  to 
be  made"  in  their  own  tongue.  There  were  no  strangers 
in  the  assembly  that  lingered  in  the  tiny  vestibule  and 
blocked  the  aisle  when  the  service  was  over.  The  spirit 
of  mutual  helpfulness  spoke  in  eye  and  speech.  It  should 
not  have  been  considered  singular  that  those  thus  con- 
vened were,  almost  without  exception,  refined  and  edu- 
cated, and  so  unlike  the  commonly  accepted  type  of  travel- 
ling American,  that  we  often  commented  upon  the  fact  in 
conferences  with  familiar  friends.  We  felicitated  our- 
selves that  we  caught  the  cream  of  the  flow  of  tourists, 
that  season. 

"It  is  a  breath  of  the  dear  old  home-life!"  said  more 
than  one  attendant  upon  the  simple  services,  where  the 
congregation  was  kaleidoscopic  in  outward  seeming,  the 
same  in  spirit. 

I  cannot  pass  over  this  period  of  our  foreign  life  without 
a  tribute  to  one  whose  friendship  and  able  co-operation  in 
the  work  laid  to  Doctor  Terhune's  hand,  did  more  than  any 
other  one  influence  to  make  for  him  a  home  in  Rome.  Dr. 
Leroy  M.  Vernon,  who  subsequently  became  Dean  of  the 
University  of  Syracuse,  in  New  York  State,  was  the  rarest 
combination  of  strength  and  gentleness  I  have  ever  seen. 
He  had  been  for  some  years  resident  in  Rome;  was  an  en- 
thusiastic archaeologist  and  art-student,  speaking  Italian 
with  fluency  and  grace,  and  thoroughly  au  fait  to  the  best 
literature  of  that  tongue.  From  the  beginning  of  their 
acquaintanceship,  the  two  men  fraternized  heartily.  In 
the  ripening  of  liking  into  intimacy,  they  walked,  rode, 
talked,  and  studied  together.  What  the  association  was 
to  the  younger  of  the  two,  may  be  imagined  by  one  who 
has  had  the  privilege  of  close  communion  with  a  beloved 

430 


LIFE    IN    ROME    AND    GENEVA 

comrade  who  held  the  key  to  the  treasure-house  one  has 
longed  all  his  life  to  enter. 

"The  winter  in  Italy  with  Vernon  was  worth  more  to 
me  than  a  course  in  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  combined 
with  ten  years  of  archaeological  lectures  from  experts," 
was  the  testimony  of  the  survivor,  twenty  years  later,  when 
the  news  of  the  dean's  death  was  brought  to  us. 

They  loved  each  other  tenderly  to  the  end  of  mortal 
companionship. 

Who  can  doubt  that  it  has  been  renewed  in  the  City 
where  eager  minds  are  never  checked  by  physical  weak- 
ness, and  aspiration  is  identical  with  fulfilment? 

In  mid-May,  when  the  Pincio  put  on  its  beautiful  gar- 
ments in  the  purple  flowering  of  the  Judas-trees,  and  the 
tawny  Tiber  rolled  between  hills  of  living  green,  we  turned 
our  backs  upon  what  those  marvellous  months  had  wrought 
into  our  own  familiar  dwelling-place,  and  took  our  sad, 
reluctant  way  to  Florence.  Five  weeks  there  were  varied 
by  excursions  to  Fiesole,  Bologna,  and  Venice.  Our  next 
move  was  to  Lucerne.  Leaving  the  children  in  care  of 
"The  Invaluable,"  we  ran  up  to  Heidelberg,  joining  there 
our  kinspeople,  the  Ashleys,  and  travelling  with  them 
leisurely  over  mountain  and  through  pass,  until  we  brought 
up  in  Geneva. 

We  were  hardly  settled,  as  we  supposed  for  the  season, 
in  the  bright  little  town  of  Calvin  and  Voltaire,  when  a 
summons  came  from  the  American  Chapel  in  Paris  for 
Doctor  Terhune's  services,  pending  the  absence  of  the  regu- 
lar incumbent  in  America,  whither  he  had  been  summoned 
by  the  illness  of  his  mother.  We  had  no  thought  that  the 
separation  of  the  head  from  our  transplanted  family  would 
be  a  matter  of  even  a  few  weeks,  whereas  it  lasted  for  four 
months.  There  was  visiting  back  and  fro;  a  reunion  at 
Christmas  under  the  massive  crowns  of  mistletoe,  such  as 
grow  nowhere  else — not  even  in  the  Britain  of  the  Druids 

431 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

■ — and  a  memorable  New- Year's  dinner  at  the  Hotel 
Metropole,  arranged  under  American  auspices,  the  chief 
pride  of  the  feast  being  mince-pies,  concocted  by  Yankee 
housewives,  and  misspelled  among  the  French  dishes  on 
the  gorgeously  illuminated  menus.  In  February,  my  eld- 
est daughter  and  myself  went  to  Paris  for  a  fortnight — a 
tentative  trip  which  proved  beyond  a  question  that  the 
air  of  the  city  on  the  Seine  was  rank  poison  to  the  healing 
lungs.  We  hurried  back  to  jolly,  friendly  Geneva,  where 
I  could  walk  five  miles  per  diem  in  air  that  was  the  very 
elixir  of  life  to  my  system,  physical,  mental,  and  moral. 
Even  the  lusty  winds  from  Mont  Blanc,  and  the  rough 
gales  that  lashed  Lake  Leman  into  yeasty  ridges  for  a 
week  at  a  time,  wrought  strength,  instead  of  harm.  That 
bodily  strength  grew  apace  was  but  one  element  in  the 
fulness  of  content  in  which  we  basked  throughout  the 
eight  months  we  spent  in  the  lakeside  city,  behind  which 
the  Alps  stood  in  sublime  calmness  that  was  in  itself  tonic 
and  inspiration.  We  had  a  pleasant  appartement  in  the 
Pension  Magnenat,  directly  upon  the  quay.  From  our 
drawing-room  windows  we  looked  across  the  lake  upon  the 
Juras,  capped  with  snow,  and  made  beautiful  exceedingly 
all  day  long,  by  changeful  lights  and  shadows,  reflected  in 
the  waters  in  opaline,  prismatic  hues  we  had  never  seen 
surpassed,  even  in  Italy. 

The  American  colony  in  Geneva  has  a  stable  reputation 
for  intelligence  and  good-breeding.  One  expects  to  find 
these  in  university  towns  abroad,  as  at  home.  It  may 
not  have  been  unusually  delightful  that  winter.  Perhaps 
climate  and  health  combined  with  "our  peaceful  domestic 
life,  to  incline  us  to  be  more  than  satisfied  with  our  social 
environment.  Certain  it  is  that  the  circle  of  congenial 
associates,  that  had  widened  to  take  us  in,  as  a  part  of  a 
harmonious  corporate  whole,  was,  to  our  apprehension, 
ideally  charming.     Everybody  had  some  specific  work  or 

432 


LIFE    IN    ROME    AND    GENEVA 

pursuit  to  explain  his,  or  her  residence  in  Geneva.  The 
younger  men  were  in  the  university,  or  in  preparation  for 
it,  with  "coaches";  the  girls  were  studying  French,  Ger- 
man, and  Italian,  or  painting  from  nature  under  such  in- 
structors as  Madame  Vouga,  whose  renown  as  a  painter  of 
wild  flowers  was  international.  We  matrons  had  a  reading- 
class,  enlivened  by  the  membership  of  our  daughters,  that 
met  weekly  at  the  house  of  some  one  of  the  party.  To  it 
we  brought  our  easels,  boards,  and  paint-boxes,  our 
embroidery,  or  other  fancy-work.  One  of  the  girls  read 
aloud  for  two  hours — history,  biography,  or  essay — and  at 
five  o'clock  what  had  been  read  was  discussed  freely  over 
afternoon  tea.  A  club  of  young  people  of  both  sexes  read 
German,  alternately  with  Italian  and  French  plays,  on 
Wednesday  night,  in  my  salon,  I  playing  chaperon  at  my 
embroidery-frame  at  a  side-table,  and  admitted  to  the 
merry  chat  that  went  around  with  coffee  and  cake,  when 
the  reading  was  concluded.  Some  of  the  members  of  that 
informal  "Club"  have  made  their  mark  in  the  large  outer 
world  since  that  care-free,  all-satisfying  sojourn  in  what 
we  forgot  to  call  an  alien  land,  so  happily  did  we  blend 
with  the  classic  influences,  lapping  us  about  so  softly  that 
we  were  never  conscious  of  the  acclimating  process. 

The  tall  youth,  who  submitted  meekly  (or  gallantly)  to 
correction  of  lingual  lapses  in  his  rendering  of  Moliere  or 
Wallenstein  or  Ariosto,  from  the  girl  at  his  elbow — reveng- 
ing himself  by  a  brisk  fire  of  badinage  in  honest  English 
after  the  books  were  closed — is  an  eminent  metropolitan 
lawyer,  whose  income  runs  up  well  into  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands; another,  a  Berlin  graduate,  is  the  dignified  dean  of 
a  law  school  attached  to  an  American  university;  another 
is  a  college  professor;  another,  a  Genevan  graduate,  is 
rising  in  fame  and  fortune  in  an  English  city ;  one,  beloved 
by  all,  completed  a  brilliant  course  at  Harvard,  and  when 
hope  and  life  were  in  their  prime,  laid  his  noble  head  down 

433 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

for  his  last  sleep  in  Mount  Auburn.  The  gay  girls  are  staid 
matrons  and  mothers  now,  with  sons  and  daughters  of 
their  own,  as  old  as  themselves  were  in  that  far-off,  care- 
free time. 

I  have  written  " care-free"  twice  upon  one  page,  and 
because  I  can  conjure  up  no  other  phrase  that  so  aptly 
describes  what  that  veritable  arbor  on  the  Hill  Difficulty 
we  call  "Life,"  was  to  me.  Household  cares  were  an  un- 
known quantity  in  the  well  -  conducted  pension.  Our 
breakfast  of  French  rolls,  coffee,  tea,  boiled  eggs,  honey, 
and,  for  the  younger  children,  creamy  milk,  was  brought  to 
our  salon  every  morning.  A  substantial  luncheon  (the 
dejeuner  a  la  fourchette)  was  served  in  the  pension  salle  a 
manger  at  one,  and  a  dinner  of  six  or  seven  courses,  at 
seven.  Our  fellow-guests  were,  for  the  most  part,  un- 
objectionable; a  fair  proportion  were  agreeable  and  de- 
sirable acquaintances.  About  one-third  were  Americans; 
another  third  were  English;  the  rest  were  Italians,  Ger- 
mans, Russians,  and  French.  A  table  at  one  end  of  the 
room  was  assigned  to  English-speaking  boarders,  and  we 
soon  made  up  a  pleasant  clique  that  did  not,  however, 
exclude  several  foreigners.  Thus  we  persisted  in  calling 
them  to  ourselves.  There  were  excursions  every  few  days 
to  places  of  interest  within  easy  reach.  Coppet,  the  home 
and  burial-place  of  Madame  de  Stael;  the  Villa  Diodati, 
where  Byron  and  Shelley  lived  and  wrote;  Ferney  the 
chateau  from  which  Voltaire  wrote  letters  to  the  magnates 
of  the  world,  and  within  the  walls  of  which  he  entertained 
all  the  famous  wits  and  many  of  the  beauties  of  Ins  stir- 
ring times;  Chillon,  immortalized  by  Bonnivard  and  the 
poem  founded  upon  his  captivity — were  some  of  the  mem- 
orable haunts  with  which  frequent  visits  made  us  familiar. 

Exercise  was  a  luxury  in  the  ozone-fraught  air,  fresh 
every  morning,  and  work  was  the  natural  result  of  the 
abounding  vitality  thus  engendered.     In  no  other  quarter 

434 


LIFE    IN    ROME    AND    GENEVA 

of  the  globe  have  I  found  such  sustained  vigor  of  mental 
and  physical  forces  as  during  our  residence  in  Switzerland. 
I  record  the  fact  gratefully,  and  as  a  possible  helpful  sug- 
gestion to  other  sufferers  from  the  overstimulating  cli- 
mate and  prevalent  energy  of  American  life.  Rome  was  a 
gracious  rest;  Geneva  was  upbuilding. 

It  was  a  positive  wrench  to  the  heartstrings  to  leave 
her  in  May,  and  take  our  course  leisurely  northward. 

The  summer  was  given,  and  happily,  to  England,  our 
headquarters  being,  successively,  the  Isle  of  Wight,  Leam- 
ington, and  Brighton. 

Late  in  September,  we  sailed  for  New  York. 
29 


XLV 

SUNNYBANK — A  NEW  ENGLAND  PARISH — "MY  BOYS" — TWO 
" STARRED"    NAMES 

With  no  more  idea  as  to  our  permanent  abiding-place 
than  had  the  Father  of  the  Faithful,  when  he  turned  his 
back  upon  Ur  of  the  Chaldees,  and  his  face  toward  a  land 
he  knew  not  of,  "still  journeying  toward  the  south,"  in 
obedience  to  daily  marching  orders  — ■  we  sought,  upon 
reaching  our  native  shores,  the  one  pied-a-tcrre  left  to  us 
on  the  continent. 

Sunnybank  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  gardener, 
who,  with  his  comely  English  wife  and  four  children,  had 
now  occupied  the  lodge  at  the  gate  of  our  domain  for  ten 
years.  He  was  Pompton-born  and  bred,  and  so  unro- 
mantic  in  sentiment  and  undemonstrative  in  demeanor, 
that  we  were  not  prepared  to  behold  a  triumphal  wreath 
on  the  gate  when  we  drove  into  the  grounds.  No  human 
creature  was,  visible  until,  winding  through  the  grove  that 
hides  the  house  from  the  highway,  we  saw  the  whole  fam- 
ily collected  about  the  door.  All  were  in  holiday  garb; 
wreaths  of  goldenrod  hung  in  the  windows,  and  above 
the  porch  was  tacked  a  scroll  with  the  word  "Welcome" 
wrought  upon  it  in  the  same  flowers.  Yet  more  amazed 
were  we  when,  as  Doctor  Terhune  stepped  from  the  car- 
riage, Conrad  knelt  suddenly  and  embraced  the  knees  of 
his  employer,  with  an  inarticulate  shout  of  joy,  tears  raining 
down  his  tanned  cheeks. 

'"'Just  like  a  scene  in  an  English  play!"  commented 

436 


SUNNYBANK 

Christine,  afterward.    "But  not  a  bit  like  what  one  would 
expect  in  Pompton,  New  Jersey,  U.  S.  A." 

The  unexpectedness  of  it  all,  especially  the  involuntary 
outbreak  in  a  man  who  had  never  seen  a  play  in  his 
life,  and  despised  "foolishness"  of  whatsoever  description, 
moved  us  to  answering  softness,  and  brought  the  first 
rush  of  home-gladness  we  had  felt  since  landing.  For,  to 
be  honest,  I  confess  that  none  of  us  were  as  yet  reconciled 
to  exchanging  the  life  we  had  luxuriated  in  for  the  past 
two  years — full,  rich,  and  varied — for  a  toilful  routine  of 
parish  duties,  we  knew  not  where.  Without  confiding  the 
weakness  to  the  others,  each  of  us,  as  we  owned  subse- 
quently with  a  twinge  of  shame,  had  been  wofully  dashed 
in  spirit  by  the  circumstances  attending  our  arrival. 
Clarence  Ashley  had  met  us  upon  the  wharf,  his  mother 
and  sisters  being  at  their  country-place;  the  day  was  un- 
seasonably warm  for  late  September,  and  New  York  was 
in  its  least  attractive  out-of-season  dress  and  mood.  The 
docks  were  dirty,  and  littered  with  trunks,  crates,  and 
boxes;  the  custom-house  officers  were  slow,  and  most  of 
them  sulky.  We  parted  on  the  wharf  with  a  dear  friend 
from  Virginia,  who  had  travelled  with  us  for  nearly  a  year, 
and  had  taken  return  passage  in  the  same  ship.  She  had 
a  home  to  which  to  go.  We  felt  like  pilgrims  and  strangers 
in  a  foreign  land.  As  the  carriage  into  which  we  had 
packed  ourselves  threaded  its  way  through  the  grimy 
purlieus  of  the  lower  city,  I  found  myself  saying  over 
mentally  the  unpatriotic  doggerel  I  used  to  declare  was 
unworthy  of  any  true  American: 

"The  streets  are  narrow  and  the  buildings  mean — 
Did  I,  or  fancy,  leave  them  broad  and  clean?" 

Then,  the  fields  and  roads  past  which  the  train  (yclept 
"an  accommodation")  bumped  and  swung,  were  ragged 
and  dusty;   the  hedge-rows  were  unkempt,  the  trees  un- 

437 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

trimmed.  Fresh  as  we  were  from  the  verdure  of  English 
parks,  the  shaven  lawns,  and  blossoming  hedges  that  make 
a  garden-spot  of  the  tight  little  island  we  proudly  recog- 
nized as  our  Old  Home,  the  effect  of  that  sultry  afternoon 
was  distinctly  depressing.  Our  lakeside  cottage,  the  one 
nook  in  all  the  broad  land  we  could  call  "Home,"  on  this 
side  of  the  water,  was  another  disappointment.  Mrs.  Hay- 
cock and  her  girls  had  wrought  zealously  to  make  it  com- 
fortable, and  even  festive.  The  wee  rooms  (as  they  looked 
to  us)  were  shining  clean ;  flowers  were  set  here  and  there, 
white  curtains,  white  bedspreads,  and  bright  brasses  be- 
tokened loving  solicitude  for  our  welfare  and  contentment, 
and  the  good  woman  had  ready  a  hot  supper,  enriched  with 
such  Pompton  dainties  as  she  knew  we  loved.  "The  In- 
valuable" bustled  over  luggage,  and  added  finishing  touches 
to  bedrooms  and  nursery.  I  am  sure  she  was  the  only  one 
of  the  returned  exiles  who  was  really  happy  that  night. 

I  am  thus  frank  in  relating  our  experiences,  because  I 
believe  them  to  be  identical  with  those  of  a  majority  of 
tourists,  upon  resuming  home-habits  in  their  native  country. 
After  excitement  and  novelty  comes  the  ebb-tide  of  re- 
action for  the  bravest  and  the  most  loving.  Home  is  home, 
but  readjustment  precedes  real  enjoyment  of  the  old  scenes 
and  ways. 

We  were  hardly  settled  in  the  nest  before  we  paid  a 
promised  visit  to  Richmond.  There  were  resident  there, 
now,  three  families  of  the  clan.  My  brother  Horace  and 
the  noble  wife  with  whom  my  intimacy  continued  un- 
shadowed by  a  cloud  of  distrust  until  her  death  in  1894; 
my  sister  Myrtle,  more  my  daughter  than  sister,  her 
husband,  and  the  boy  who  was  my  husband's  namesake; 
and  Percy,  the  youngling  of  the  brood,  with  a  dainty  little 
spouse  and  their  first-born  son — made  up  the  group  that 
welcomed  us  to  dear  old  Richmond  in  early  December. 

To  this  was  added,  a  week  or  so  later,  our  eldest  sister, 

438 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PARISH 

who  journeyed  all  the  way  from  her  Missouri  home  to  join 
in  the  greetings  to  the  whilom  wanderers.  We  had  one 
more  Christmas-week  together — the  last  that  was  to  col- 
lect the  unbroken  band  under  one  roof-tree.  Then  Mea 
went  westward,  and  we  took  our  way  toward  the  north, 
leaving  Christine  to  make  her  debut  in  society  under  the 
auspices  of  her  uncles  and  aunts,  and  where  her  mother  had 
first  tasted  the  pleasures  of  young-ladyhood. 

It  was,  as  I  wrote  to  her,  history  repeating  itself,  and 
that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  taken  root  again  in  my  native  soil, 
and  was  budding  anew  into  a  second  springtime. 

In  May  I  wrote  to  the  girl  whose  first  winter  "out"  had, 
thanks  to  the  affectionate  adoption  of  uncles  and  aunts, 
fulfilled  her  rosiest  dreams: 

"Do  you  recollect  that  I  quoted  to  you  at  our  parting  in 
January,  what  a  quaint  old  lady  said  to  me  in  my  girlhood: 
'My  dear,  you  may  be  an  angel  some  day!  You  will  never 
be  young  again.     Therefore,  make  the  most  of  youth.' 

"I  paraphrase  her  counsel  now,  and  to  you:  Make  the  most 
of  your  present  freedom,  for  you  are  going  to  be  a  pastor's 
daughter  again.  As  you  know,  your  father  has  been  preach- 
ing hither  and  yon  all  winter,  and  has  had  four  calls  to  as 
many  different  churches:  two  in  New  Jersey,  one  in  New 
Haven,  and,  lastly,  in  Springfield,  Massachusetts.  For  rea- 
sons that  seem  good  and  sufficient  to  him,  he  has  accepted 
the  last-named  invitation,  and  he  will  enter  upon  the  duties 
connected  therewith,  this  month. 

"The  'Old  First'  is  the  most  ancient  church  in  Springfield, 
if  not  the  oldest  in  the  Connecticut  Valley.  It  has  had  an 
honorable  history,  in  more  than  two  hundred  years  of  exist- 
ence. If  you  have  read  Doctor  Holland's  Bay  Path,  you  will 
recollect  Mr.  Moxon,  the  then  pastor  of  this  church.  Per- 
haps because  I  have  read  the  book,  and  maybe  because  my 
old  Massachusetts  grandmother  (a  Puritan  of  the  Puritans, 
and  preciously  uncomfortable  to  live  with,  she  was!)  talked 
to  me  of  the  straitlaced    notions,  works,  and  ways  of  the 

439 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

'orthodox'  New-Englander,  which  she  thought  'blazed'  the 
only  road  to  heaven — I  have  an  idea  that  we  will  find  the 
atmosphere  of  Springfield  very  different  from  any  other  in 
which  we  have  lived.  If  I  am  right,  it  will  be  a  change  even 
from  Presbyterian  Richmond.  However  this  may  be,  I 
counsel  you  to  enjoy  the  remaining  weeks  of  your  stay  there 
to  the  utmost." 

If  I  were  called  upon  to  describe  what  was  the  real 
"atmosphere"  of  the  loveliest  of  New  England  towns,  in 
which  we  lived  for  five  busy  years,  I  should  say  that  it  was 
"stratified,"  and  that  in  a  fashion  that  puzzled  us  griev- 
ously up  to  the  latest  day  of  our  sojourn.  Public  spirit 
of  the  best  and  most  enlightened  sort;  refinement  and 
taste  in  art  and  literature ;  social  manners  and  usages  that 
were  metropolitan,  and  neighborliness  which  made  the 
stranger  and  sojourner  welcome  and  at  ease — all  this  was 
"shot,"  if  I  may  so  express  it,  with  strata  of  bigotry;  with 
stubborn  convictions  that  the  holders  thereof  were  right, 
and  the  insignificant  residue  of  the  world  utterly  wrong, 
and  with  primitive  modes  of  daily  life  and  speech,  that 
never  ceased  to  surprise  and  baffle  us.  Yet  we  flattered 
ourselves  that  we  knew  something  of  the  world  and  the 
inhabitants  thereof ! 

In  the  process  of  acclimation  we  had  occasion,  if  we  had 
never  had  it  before,  to  be  thankful  for  the  unfailing  and 
robust  sense  of  humor  that  had  stood  our  friend  in  many 
straits  which  would  else  have  been  annoyances.  Before 
long,  we  recognized  that  certain  contradictory  phases  of 
conduct  and  language,  hard  to  comprehend  and  hard  to 
endure,  had  their  keynote  in  what  one  of  the  best  of  my 
new  friends  once  aptly  defined  to  me  as  "an  agony  of  in- 
communicableness, "  inherent  in  the  New-Englander's  com- 
position. He  may  have  drawn  the  strain  through  nearly 
three  centuries  from  his  early  English  ancestry.  I  have 
seen  the  same  paradox  in  the  Briton  of  this  generation. 

440 


"MY    BOYS" 

Of  one  such  man  I  said,  later  in  life,  when  I  was  alone 
with  my  sick  son,  thousands  of  miles  from  home;  "The  ice 
was  slow  in  breaking  up;  but  it  gave  way  all  at  once,  and 
there  was  warm  water  under  it." 

"Agony  of  incommunicableness !"  Over  and  over,  dur- 
ing those  five  years,  I  blessed  the  man  who  put  that  key 
into  my  hand. 

I  cannot  better  illustrate  what  I  am  trying  to  explain 
than  by  relating  what  is,  to  me,  one  of  the  most  precious 
and  altogether  satisfactory  memories  connected  with  our 
Springfield  experiences. 

Four  months  after  our  removal  to  the  beautiful  city,  I 
received  a  formal  request  (everything  up  to  that  time  had 
a  smack  of  formality  to  my  apprehension)  that  I  would  take 
charge  of  a  young  men's  Bible-class,  the  teacher  of  which 
had  left  the  town.  The  application  was  startling,  for  not 
one  of  the  young  fellows  had  ever  called  on  me,  or  evinced 
other  consciousness  of  the  insignificant  fact  of  my  exist- 
ence than  was  implied  in  a  grave  salutation  at  the  church- 
door  and  on  the  street.  After  consultation  with  my  hus- 
band I  accepted  the  position,  and  on  the  next  Sabbath 
was  duly  inducted  into  office  by  the  superintendent.  That 
is,  he  took  me  to  the  door  of  the  class-room  and  announced : 
"Mrs.  Terhune,  young  gentlemen,  who  will  conduct  your 
class  in  the  place  of  Mr.  L.,  resigned." 

I  walked  up  the  room  to  face  eight  bearded  men,  the 
youngest  twenty  -  two  years  of  age,  drawn  up  in  line  of 
battle  at  the  far  end.  I  bowed  and  said  "Good-afternoon," 
in  taking  the  seat  and  table  set  for  me  in  front  of  the 
line.  They  bowed  in  silence.  I  began  the  attack  by  dis- 
claiming the  idea  of  "teaching"  them,  concealing  as  best 
I  could  my  consternation  at  finding  men  where  I  had 
looked  for  lads.  I  asked  "the  privilege  of  studying  with 
them,"  and  thanked  them  for  the  compliment  of  the  in- 
vitation to  do  this.     Then  I  opened  the  Bible  and  delivered 

441 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

a  familiar  running  lecture  upon  the  lesson  for  the  day. 
Not  a  question  was  asked  by  one  of  the  dumb  eight,  and 
not  a  comment  was  made  at  the  close  of  the  "exercises" 
upon  what  had  been  said.  I  went  through  the  miserable 
form  of  shaking  hands  with  them  all  as  we  separated,  and 
carried  home  a  thoroughly  discouraged  spirit.  By  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  I  hit  upon  the  idea  of  calling  upon  each 
student  to  read  a  reference  text,  as  it  occurred  in  the  course 
of  the  lecture,  and  I  took  care  there  should  be  plenty  of 
them.  That  was  the  first  crack  in  the  ice.  Encouraged 
by  the  sound  of  their  own  voices,  the  young  fellows  put  a 
query  or  two,  and  I  used  these  as  nails  upon  which  to  hang 
observations  not  indicated  in  the  "lesson-papers."  Next 
week  there  were  sixteen  in  line.  Before  the  first  year  was 
out  there  were  forty,  and  they  gave  a  dramatic  entertain- 
ment in  a  neighboring  hall,  which  netted  a  sum  large 
enough  to  enlarge  the  class-room  to  double  the  original 
size.  They  decorated  it  with  their  own  hands,  and  I  was 
with  them  every  evening  thus  employed. 

Still,  there  was  never  a  syllable  to  indicate  that  this  was 
anything  but  a  business  venture.  I  love  boys  with  my 
whole  heart,  and  I  had  said  this  and  more  in  their  hearing, 
eliciting  no  response. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  3^ear,  when  there  were  fifty 
members  in  the  class,  one  of  the  eldest  of  the  number  re- 
moved from  Springfield  to  a  distant  city.  One  of  the  great- 
est surprises  of  my  life  was  in  the  form  of  a  letter  I  had 
the  week  after  he  had  bidden  me  good-bye  as  coolly  as  if 
he  had  expected  to  see  me  next  Sunday  as  usual. 

He  began  by  telling  me  how  often  he  had  wished  he  could 
express  what  those  Sunday  afternoons  had  been  in  his 
life.  He  "feared  that  I  might  have  thought  him  unre- 
sponsive and  ungrateful." 

"If  indeed  you  ever  troubled  yourself  to  bestow  more 
than  a  passing  thought  upon  this  one  of  the  many  to  whom 

442 


"MY    BOYS'' 

you  have  ministered,"  he  went  on,  "I  don't  believe  you 
ever  noticed  that  I  let  nobody  else  take  the  seat  next  to 
you  on  the  left?  I  used  to  go  very  early  to  make  sure  of 
it.  I  shall  unite  with  the  church  here  next  Sunday.  You 
have  a  right  to  know  of  a  purpose,  formed  weeks  ago,  in 
that  class-room— the  most  sacred  spot  to  me  on  earth." 

He  wrote  to  me  of  his  marriage  two  years  later,  then  of 
the  coming  of  his  first-born  son.  About  once  a  year  I 
heard  from  him,  and  that  he  was  prospering  in  business 
and  happy  in  his  home.  Ten  years  ago  I  had  a  paper  con- 
taining a  marked  obituary-notice  bearing  his  name. 

The  same  story,  with  variations  that  do  not  affect  the 
general  purport  of  the  class-history,  might  be  repeated 
here.  I  hear  of  "my  boys"  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
All  are  gray-haired  now  who  have  not  preceded  their  grate- 
ful leader  to  the  Changeless  Home. 

There  were  sixty-six  of  them  when  I  told  them,  one  Sun- 
day afternoon,  five  years  after  our  first  meeting,  that  Doc- 
tor Terhune  had  accepted  a  pressing  call  to  a  Brooklyn 
church,  and  that  I  must  leave  them.  The  news  was  abso- 
lutely unexpected,  and  a  dead  silence  ensued.  Then  one 
fellow,  who  had  been  received  into  the  church  with  ten 
others  of  our  class,  at  the  preceding  communion  season, 
arose  in  his  place: 

"Is  there  anything  we  could  do  to  keep  him — and 
you?"  he  asked,  huskily.  "Has  anybody  done  anything  to 
make  your  residence  here  unpleasant?  If  so  " — stammer- 
ing now,  and  a  defiant  scowl  gathering  upon  his  hand- 
some face — "Say!  can't  we  fellows  just  clean  them  out,  and 
keep  you  and  the  Doctor?" 

It  was  impossible  not  to  laugh.  It  was  as  impossible  to 
hold  back  the  tears  at  the  odd  demonstration  of  the  "  boys' " 
claim  to  membership  in  the  Church  Militant.  He  may 
have  forgotten  the  upgushing  of  the  warm  water  under 
the  ice.     I  shall  never  lose  the  memory. 

443 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Nor  yet  of  the  farewell  reception  to  which  the  boys 
rallied  in  force,  excluding  all  other  guests  from  the  pleasant 
class-room  we  had  built,  and  in  which  I  spent  some  of  the 
happiest  hours  vouchsafed  to  me  in  the  city  I  had  called 
"a  cold-storage  vault,"  before  I  got  under  the  ice  of 
English  reserve  and  Puritanical  self-consciousness — en- 
gendered, as  I  am  fain  to  believe,  by  the  rigid  self- 
examination  enjoined  by  the  founders  of  State  and  Church. 
In  those  rude  and  strenuous  days,  self-examination  took 
the  place,  with  tortured,  naked  souls,  of  the  penances 
prescribed  in  the  communion  they  had  left  to  find 

"Freedom  to  worship  God," 
and 

"A  church  without  a  bishop, 
A  state  without  a  king." 

The  class-room  was  wreathed  with  flowers;  there  was 
music  by  the  boys,  and  social  chat;  a  collation  of  their  own 
devising:  then  the  eldest  of  the  band,  a  married  man  for 
years,  goodly  of  form  and  feature,  and  with  a  nature  as 
lovely  as  his  face,  arose  to  make  a  farewell  "presentation 
address."  He  never  finished  it,  although  it  began  bravely 
enough.  The  handsome  set  of  brasses  he  passed  over  to 
me  were  labelled,  as  he  showed  me,  "From  Your  Boys." 

"You  will  have  another  class  in  your  new  home,"  the 
speaker  broke  into  the  carefully  prepared  peroration  to 
say,  "  but  please  let  us  always  call  ourselves,  '  Your  Boys !' " 

They  are  that  still,  and  they  will  be  evermore!  A  finer, 
more  loyal  body  of  young  men  it  would  be  hard  to  find 
in  New  England,  or  elsewhere.  It  has  happened  so  often 
that  I  have  come  to  look  for  it,  that,  on  steamer  or  train, 
on  the  street  or  in  hotel,  I  am  accosted  by  a  middle-aged 
man — invariably  highly  respectable  in  appearance — with — 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Let  me  recall  myself  to  your 
memory.      I  belonged  to  your  Bible-class  in  Springfield." 

444 


TWO    "STARRED"    NAMES 

If,  .as  usually  happens,  he  adds  to  his  name,  "One  of 
your  boys" — the  ashes  are  blown  away  from  the  embers  of 
long-past  acquaintanceship.  The  talk  that  ensues  invari- 
ably emphasizes  the  pleasing  fact  that,  if  there  were  a  black 
sheep  in  our  fold,  he  has,  up  to  date,  escaped  detection. 

God  bless  each  and  every  one  of  them ! 

I  cannot  close  the  chapter  that  has  to  do  with  our 
Springfield  days,  without  paying  a  brief  tribute  to  two  who 
played  important  parts  in  the  drama  of  our  family  life. 
Both  have  passed  from  mortal  vision,  and  I  may,  there- 
fore, name  them  freely. 

The  house  built  for  us  by  a  parishioner  in  the  pleasantest 
part  of  the  city,  was  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the 
homestead  of  the  late  Samuel  Bowles,  the  well-known  pro- 
prietor of  the  Springfield  Republican.  The  house  was  now 
occupied  by  his  widow  and  family.  To  the  warm  friend- 
ship that  grew  up  between  Mrs.  Bowles  and  myself  I  owe 
more  than  I  can  trust  my  pen  to  express  here.  From  our 
earliest  meeting,  the  "middle  wall  of  partition  "  of  stranger- 
hood  ceased  to  be  to  either  of  us.  Hers,  as  I  often  reminded 
her,  was  the  one  and  only  house  in  the  place  into  which 
I  could  drop,  between  the  lights,  unannounced,  when  the 
humor  seized  me,  and  without  putting  on  hat  or  coat. 
The  ascent  of  the  half-block  of  space  dividing  our  doors  is 
ever  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  gloaming  and  moon- 
light, and  slipping  away  from  duties  to  relax  thought 
and  tongue,  for  one  calming  and  sweetening  half-hour,  in 
the  society  of  one  "who  knew."  It  was  not  alone  that, 
as  one  who  had  been  born,  and  had  lived  out  her  girlhood 
in  the  Middle  States,  her  range  of  ideas  and  sympathies 
was  not  limited  by  the  circle  of  hills  binding  Springfield 
into  a  close  corporation.  Her  great,  warm  heart  took  in 
the  homesick  stranger  that  I  was,  for  many  a  month  after 
transplantation,  and  gave  me  a  corner  of  my  very  own. 
She  was  a  safe,  as  well  as  an  appreciative  listener,  and 

445 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

gave  me  many  a  hint  respecting  my  new  environment  that 
wrought  out  good  to  me.  Her  fine  sense  of  humor  was 
another  bond  that  drew  us  together.  The  snug  sitting- 
room,  looking  upon  the  quiet  street,  up  which  the  shadows 
gathered  slowly  on  summer  evenings,  and  where  the  sleigh- 
bells  jingled  shrilly  in  the  early  winter  twilight,  echoed  to 
bursts  of  laughter  better  befitting  a  pair  of  school-girls 
than  two  matrons  who  were  both  on  the  shady  side  of 
fifty.  I  was  in  the  earthly  Jerusalem,  with  my  son,  when 
the  gates  of  the  Celestial  City  opened  to  receive  her  faithful, 
loving  spirit.  I  am  sure  that,  as  Bunyan  affirmed  when 
another  travel-worn  pilgrim  entered  into  rest,  "All  the  bells 
of  the  city  rang  for  joy." 

In  April,  1884,  our  eldest  daughter  became  the  wife  of 
James  Frederick  Herrick,  one  of  the  Republican's  editorial 
staff.  We  left  her  in  Springfield  when,  in  the  same  year, 
we  returned  to  the  Middle  States  to  take  up  our  abode  for 
the  next  twelve  years  in  Brooklyn.  We  could  not  have 
left  her  in  safer,  tenderer  keeping.  A  brother-editor  said 
of  him  once  that  he  "had  a  heart  of  fire  in  a  case  of  ice." 
The  simile  did  not  do  justice  to  the  gentle  courtesy  and 
dignity  that  lent  a  touch  of  old  -  school  courtliness  to 
manner  and  address.  In  all  the  intimate  association  of 
the  next  ten  years,  I  never  saw  in  him  an  act,  or  heard  a 
word  that  approximated  unkindness  or  incivility.  I  wrote 
him  down  then,  as  I  do  now,  as  in  all  respects,  the  thorough 
gentleman  in  what  makes  the  much-abused  word  a  badge 
of  honor.  His  ideals  were  high  and  pure;  his  life,  private 
and  professional,  above  reproach. 

"The  stuff  martyrs  and  heroes  are  made  of,"  said  one 
who  knew  him  well  and  long. 

He  would  have  died  for  the  truth;  he  would  have  laid 
down  his  life  with  a  smile  for  his  wife  and  children.  Such 
harmonious  blending  of  strength  and  sweetness  as  were 
found   in   the    life    of   this   man  —  modest   to    a    fault, 

446 


TWO    "STARRED"    NAMES 

and  resolute  to  a  proverb  —  I  have  never  seen  in  an- 
other. 

"/  have  fought  the  good  fight"  is  the  wording  of  his 
epitaph.  I  could  have  wished  to  add,  "0/  whom  the  world 
was  not  worthy" 

In  1886  he  received  an  appointment  that  brought  him 
to  New  York.  There  he  yielded  up  a  blameless  life  in 
1893.  If  his  last  illness  were  not  the  direct  result  of  steady, 
unremitting  work,  it  is  yet  true  that  he  wrought  gallantly 
after  the  fatal  fever  fastened  upon  him,  standing  patiently 
in  his  lot  until  prostrated  by  delirium. 

I  shall  part  with  reason  and  memory  before  I  forget  that 
his  last  thought  was  of  the  young  wife  kneeling  at  his  pil- 
low, and  that  the  dying  eyes,  in  losing  their  hold  upon 
earth,  committed  her  to  me. 


XLVI 

RETURN  TO  MIDDLE  STATES — THE  HOLY  LAND — MY  FRIENDS 
THE   MISSIONARIES — TWO  CONSULS    IN    JERUSALEM 

In  the  sketch  of  my  husband's  life-work,  written  by  a 
faithful  co-laborer  in  the  vineyard  which  is  the  world,  and 
appended  to  this  story,  his  reasons  for  returning  to  the 
Middle  States  are  briefly  given.  As  I  near  the  latter 
chapters  of  my  record,  I  am  hampered  by  the  necessity  of 
treating  cautiously  of  persons  and  incidents  too  near  the 
present  day  to  be  spoken  of  with  the  freedom  time  made 
justifiable  in  earlier  reminiscences.  Those  twelve  years  in 
the  City  of  Churches  were  crowded  with  events  of  more  or 
less  moment.  They  were  busy,  and  not  unhappy  years. 
Our  home-group,  reduced  to  four  by  the  marriage  of  our 
eldest  daughter,  was  made  still  smaller  by  the  marriage  of 
her  sister  on  March  5,  1889,  to  Frederic  Van  de  Water,  of 
Brooklyn.  The  choice  was  wise,  and  the  union  has  been 
one  of  rare  blessedness. 

"In-laws"  have  no  terrors  in  our  circle.  No  sinister 
significance  attaches  to  the  term  "mother-in-law."  The 
adopted  sons  were  loyal  and  loving  to  the  parents  of  their 
wives.  Not  a  cloud  darkens  the  memory  of  our  inter- 
course. The  only  obstacle  to  Belle's  marriage  was  thus 
stated  in  whimsical  vexation  by  her  father: 

"It  is  hard  that,  when  there  are  said  to  be  fifteen  hun- 
dred proper  names  in  the  English  language,  my  girls  must 
select  men  who  have  the  same.  It  leads  to  no  end  of  con- 
fusion!" 

Our  boy,  now  grown  into  an  athletic  six-footer,  was 

448 


RETURN  TO  MIDDLE  STATES 

graduated  from  Columbia  University  in  1893.  We  three 
had  lived  in  great  peace  and  contentment  during  his  col- 
lege course.  We  talk  often,  and  wistfully,  of  those  four 
years  of  church-work,  social  duties,  literary  tasks,  and  aca- 
demic studies,  which  filled  hands  and  heads.  We  spent  our 
winters  in  town.  Sunnybank  grew  to  be  more  and  more 
a  home  in  the  summer  months.  It  was  like  a  return  to  the 
time  when  our  own  babies  filled  house  and  verandas  with 
merry  prattle,  and  our  hearts  made  music ;  for  there  were, 
at  the  date  I  name,  four  boys  to  repeat  the  history  for  the 
proud  grandparents.  But  for  the  great  sorrow  that  had 
broken  up  Christine's  happy  home  in  February,  and  brought 
her  back  to  us  with  her  two  boys,  and  the  birth,  a  fort- 
night thereafter,  of  Belle's  second  boy,  the  years  slipped 
by  brightly,  without  other  signal  event  until  "Bert's" 
graduation  at  the  June  Commencement.  There  was,  for 
me,  one  notable  exception  to  the  gentle  flow. 

It  was,  I  think,  in  mid-June,  that  I  had  a  letter  from 
the  proprietor  of  the  Christian  Herald,  a  religious  paper 
of  wide  circulation,  asking  me  to  write  a  serial  that  should 
run  through  six  months'  issues  of  that  periodical.  Just  at 
that  time  my  mind  was  working  upon  a  projected  story 
(published  afterward  in  book-form  under  the  caption  The 
Royal  Road),  and  this  seemed  a  promising  medium  for  cir- 
culating it  among  the  classes  I  wished  to  reach.  Accord- 
ingly, I  called  at  the  Christian  Herald  office  to  discuss  the 
plan.  My  brief  and  satisfactory  interview  with  the  man- 
aging editor  over,  I  arose  to  go  when  he  invited  me  to  step 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  the  proprietor  would  like 
to  speak  with  me  for  a  minute.  I  was  courteously  received, 
and  final  arrangements  for  the  publication  of  the  serial 
were  made.  I  was  again  on  the  point  of  departure,  when 
the  proprietor  directed  my  attention  to  a  new  and  hand- 
some map  of  the  cit}^  of  Jerusalem,  spread  out  upon  his  desk, 
inquiring,  in  an  offhand  way: 

449 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Have  you  ever  visited  the  Holy  Land?" 

"Never,"  I  replied,  adding  involuntarily,  "It  has  been 
one  of  my  dearest  dreams  that  I  might  go  some  day." 

"It  would  be  a  very  easy  matter  for  you  to  fulfil  the 
wish,"  in  the  same  easy,  unpremeditated  tone. 

"Easy?"  I  repeated.     "Yes;  in  my  dreams!" 

"In  the  flesh,  and  in  reality.  Will  you  sit  down  for  a 
moment,  please?" 

He  proceeded  then,  in  less  time  than  it  will  take  me 
to  write  it,  to  unfold  a  plan  in  which  I  soon  saw,  although 
he  did  not  say  it,  that  the  serial  story,  my  call,  and  the 
map  of  Jerusalem,  conspicuously  displayed  on  his  desk, 
were  so  many  stages  of  a  carefully  concerted  scheme.  He 
wanted  me  to  go  to  Syria,  with  the  express  purpose  of  in- 
vestigating the  condition  of  the  women  of  that  land,  and 
getting  an  insight  into  their  domestic  life,  and  at  the 
same  time  incidentally  gleaning  material  for  sketches  of 
historical  localities — in  short,  to  gather  material  for  such 
"familiar  talks"  as  I  had  held  with  American  women  upon 
household  and  social  topics.  These  were  to  be  supplied 
to  his  paper,  week  by  week.  His  provision  for  travelling 
expenses  would  include  those  of  my  husband,  or  any  other 
escort  I  might  select.  The  sum  he  named  as  remuneration 
for  the  work  was  handsome,  but  this  circumstance  made  a 
slight  impression  upon  me  at  the  time.  Our  dialogue  ended 
in  my  promise  to  take  the  matter  into  consideration,  and 
to  let  him  have  my  decision  in  a  day  or  two.  I  hope  he 
never  guessed  at  the  whirl  of  emotions  lying  back  of  a 
sober  face  and  calm  demeanor. 

I  recollect  walking  out  into  the  bustling  streets  as  if  I 
trod  upon  air,  my  head  ringing  as  if  nerves  were  taut 
harpstrings,  my  heart  throbbing  tumultuously.  I  scarcely 
knew  where  I  was,  or  whither  I  was  going.  Something, 
somewhere — it  seemed  in  the  upper  ether,  yet  so  near  that 
I  heard  words  and  music — was  singing  rapturously: 

450 


THE    HOLY    LAND 

"Jerusalem  the  Golden! 

Methinks  each  flower  that  blows, 
And  every  bird  a -singing 

Of  that  sweet  secret  knows. 
I  know  not  what  the  flowers 

May  feel,  or  singers  see, 
But  all  these  summer  raptures 

Are  prophecies  of  thee!" 

It  was  my  favorite  hymn,  but  it  was  nothing  in  me  that 
sang  it  then. 

"One  of  my  dearest  dreams!" — ever  since,  as  a  child, 
I  had  fed  a  perfervid  imagination  upon  Bible  stories,  and 
chanted  David's  psalms  aloud  in  the  Virginia  woods,  to 
tunes  of  my  own  making.  One  of  them  broke  into  the 
jubilant  Jerusalem  the  Golden  pealing  in  the  ether  over- 
head : 

"My  feet  shall  stand  within  thy  gates,  O  Jerusalem!" 

Was  I,  then,  so  near  the  fulfilment  of  the  heavenly 
dream? 

We  sailed  for  the  Holy  City  in  September — my  big  boy 
and  I.  Doctor  Terhune  could  not  go,  and  we  had  always 
promised  that  our  son  should  have  a  foreign  trip  when  his 
university  work  was  done.  The  opportunity  was  auspi- 
cious. 

Each  of  us  told  as  much  of  the  story  of  the  memorable 
seven  months  abroad  as  we  were  willing  the  public  should 
read — I,  in  the  letters  published  first  in  the  Christian  Her- 
ald, subsequently  in  book-form  under  the  title,  The  Home 
of  the  Bible;  Bert,  in  a  smaller  volume,  Syria  from  the 
Saddle,  a  breezy  chronicle  of  a  young  man's  impressions 
of  what  he  saw  and  heard  while  in  Syria.  I  considered  it 
then,  and  I  think  it  now,  a  remarkable  book,  coming,  as  it 
did,  from  the  pen  of  a  boy  of  twenty-one.     He  celebrated 

30  451 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

his  majority  in  the  desert-places  between  Damascus  and 
Jerusalem. 

Two  or  three  incidents,  eventful  forever  to  us,  may  be 
mentioned  briefly  in  this  personal  narrative. 

I  am  not  a  believer  in  dreams.  I  do  attach  importance 
to  "coincidences,"  holding  some  that  have  fallen  into  my 
life  in  reverence  the  more  sincere  because  I  cannot  explain 
them  away. 

One  night  in  Paris,  where  we  spent  a  fortnight  on  the 
way  to  Syria  via  Egypt,  I  had  a  long  and  distressing  dream 
of  carrying  a  poor  ailing  baby  along  dark  streets  and  over 
fences  and  fields.  My  arms  ached  under  the  weight  of 
the  limp  body;  my  heart  and  ears  ached  with  the  piteous 
wailing  of  the  sufferer,  for  whom  I  could  do  nothing.  I 
awoke  in  the  morning,  utterly  worn  out  in  nerve,  and  de- 
pressed unreasonably  in  spirit.  That  forenoon  I  wrote 
my  daughter: 

"It  was  an  ugly,  gruesome  dream.  Your  aunt  Myrtle 
would  see  in  it  an  omen  of  evil.  She  says  that  a  death  in  the 
family  has  always  followed  her  dream  of  the  sick  baby  she 
cannot  put  out  of  her  arms.  It  is  an  old  superstition.  You 
may  recollect  that  Charlotte  Bronte  alludes  to  it  in  Jane 
Eyre.  I  have  so  such  dreads.  Yet  I  find  myself  wishing 
that  I  had  not  had  that  'visitation.'  It  has  left  a  very  un- 
pleasant impression  on  my  mind — a  sort  of  bad  taste  in  my 
mental  mouth.  I  am  thankful  that  it  came  to  me,  and  not 
to  Myrtle." 

My  sister  had  been  ill  before  we  left  home,  but  was  con- 
valescent when  we  sailed,  and  a  letter  from  her  husband 
awaited  us  in  Paris,  conveying  the  cheerful  assurance  of 
her  confirmed  improvement  in  health  and  strength,  and 
bidding  me  have  no  further  anxiety  on  her  account. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  terrible  shock  when  a  letter,  forward- 
ed from  place  to  place,  overtook  us  in  Northern  S3^ria,  in- 

452 


THE    HOLY    LAND 

forming  us  that  my  dear  little  "  sister  -daughter/'  as  she 
loved  to  call  herself,  had  died  on  the  night  of  November 
3,  1893 — the  very  night  through  which  the  "gruesome" 
dream  had  pursued  me  from  midnight  until  dawn.  Chris- 
tine wrote  in  reply: 

"When  we  read  your  letter  of  that  date,  Belle's  eyes  met 
mine  in  silent,  awesome  questioning.  Merely  a  coincidence? 
Perhaps,  but  strange!" 

I  can  add  no  other  comment. 

My  second  eventful  incident  hinges  upon  a  short  severe 
illness  that  prostrated  me,  the  third  day  after  we  landed 
in  Beirut  from  the  steamer  we  had  taken  at  Port  Said.  I 
had  already  made  acquaintance  with  President  Bliss  and 
some  of  the  professors  in  the  American  College,  crowning 
one  of  the  heights  of  the  beautiful  town,  and  I  sent  at 
once  for  Doctor  Schauffler,  whom  I  had  known  slightly  in 
Springfield,  Massachusetts. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  my  illness  I  asked  him,  plaintively : 

"Do  you  know  there  is  not  a  woman-servant  in  this 
hotel?  The  person  who  'does'  my  room  has  a  long  white 
beard  and  wears  a  skull-cap.  Bert  calls  the  photograph 
he  has  made  of  the  nondescript:  {Le  femme  de  chambre!' 
It  is  very  funny — and  rather  dreadful!" 

"The  beloved  physician"  eyed  me  in  thoughtful  com- 
passion. 

"  We  are  so  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  here  that  we  rarely 
think  of  it  as  out  of  the  way.  No  decent  woman  would 
take  a  position  in  a  house  where  she  must  work  with  men. 
She  would  lose  caste  and  reputation,  forthwith.  Hence, 
'  le  femme  de  chambre.'  I  can  see  that  it  must  be  intensely 
disagreeable  to  you." 

There  the  matter  dropped.  I  was  still  in  bed  when,  at 
four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  he  paid  his  second  visit.  He 
wasted  no  time  in  apology  or  solicitation.    His  carriage 

453 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  at  the  door,  packed  with  cushions.  I  must  be  taken 
out  of  bed,  rolled  up  in  rugs  and  shawls,  carried  down- 
stairs by  my  son  and  my  dragoman,  deposited  in  the  car- 
riage and  driven  up  to  his  house. 

"Where  there  are  women-servants,"  he  added,  laugh- 
ingly, "and  where  a  cordial  American  welcome  awaits  you. 
Doctor  and  Mrs.  Webster,  of  Haifa,  are  visiting  us,  and 
you  will  be  well  looked  after.  And  Mrs.  Bliss  is  coming 
over  to  drink  afternoon  tea  with  you.  So,  we  have  no 
time  to  lose." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  ten  days  of  such  luxurious 
rest  and  continuous  petting  as  I  had  never  expected  to 
find  out  of  my  native  land  and  my  own  home.  I  rallied 
fast  under  the  new  conditions  of  invalidism.  In  two  days, 
I  left  my  bed  and  lay,  for  most  of  the  forenoon  and  all  the 
latter  part  of  the  day,  upon  a  luxurious  lounge  in  the 
square  central  hall,  from  which  doors  led  on  all  sides 
to  the  other  parts  of  the  house.  The  ceilings  were  twenty 
feet  above  me;  the  casements  opened  down  to  the  tiled 
floors;  palms,  and  other  tall  plants  rounded  the  corners 
of  the  hall,  and  vases  of  cut  flowers  filled  the  cooled  air 
with  fragrance.  As  I  lay,  I  could  see  trees  laden  with 
oranges  and  tangerines  in  the  gardens  below;  hedges  of 
cactus  and  geraniums,  the  latter  in  the  fulness  of  scarlet 
bloom,  intersecting  the  grounds  of  the  college  and  the 
neighboring  dwellings.  The  colony  of  President  and  pro- 
fessors was  one  united  family,  and  they  took  me — sick, 
and  a  stranger — into  the  heart  of  the  household.  I  recall, 
with  pride,  that  not  a  day  passed  that  did  not  bring  me  a 
call  from  Doctor  Bliss,  the  genial  and  honored  head  of  the 
noble  institution,  while  Mrs.  Bliss's  neighborly  attentions 
were  maternally  tender.  I  had  not  been  at  the  hotel  in 
the  lower  town  for  an  hour  before  she  appeared,  laden  with 
flowers  and  an  offering  of  "American  apples,  such  as  one 
cannot  buy  in  the  East."    The  next  day,  and  for  every 

454 


MY    FRIENDS    THE    MISSIONARIES 

day  following,  before  Doctor  Schauffler  carried  me  off  with 
benevolent  violence,  she  sent  to  me  home-made  bread, 
having  heard  (as  was  true)  that  the  hotel  bread  was  gen- 
erally sour. 

I  looked  forward  with  especial  pleasure  to  the  afternoon- 
tea  hour.  The  gathering  about  my  lounge  would  have 
graced  any  salon  where  wits  do  congregate.  The  silver- 
haired  President  never  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance; 
Doctor  Post,  the  distinguished  senior  of  the  medical  pro- 
fessors, and  his  charming  daughter,  afterward  my  cicerone 
in  the  visits  I  paid  to  Syrian  women  in  their  own  homes; 
Doctor  and  Mrs.  Eddy,  whose  daughter  was  just  then  sur- 
prising the  social  world  of  Constantinople  by  taking  her 
degree  in  medicine,  and  with  honor;  the  Jessup  brothers 
and  their  families,  known  to  all  readers  of  church  and 
charitable  literature  by  their  achievements  in  the  mission- 
field-,  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Porter,  in  whose  house  we  had 
celebrated  Thanksgiving  Day  the  evening  succeeding  our 
arrival  in  Beirut,  singing,  at  the  close  of  the  joyous 
festivities,  "My  country,  'tis  of  thee,"  with  all  the  might  of 
our  lungs,  and  with  hearts  aglow  with  patriotism  distance 
and  expatriation  could  not  abate — these,  with  a  group  of 
younger  professors,  tutors,  and  winsome  girls,  were  the 
ministering  genii  that  buoyed  me  speedily  back  to  robust 
health. 

They  gave  me  a  concert,  a  night  or  two  before  our  parting. 
The  light  in  the  great  hall  was  a  pleasant  chiaro-oscuro, 
the  music-room  opening  out  of  it  being  brilliantly  illumi- 
nated for  the  performers  upon  piano,  violin,  violoncello, 
guitar,  and  flute.  From  my  sofa  I  had  a  full  view  of  them 
all,  and  through  one  long  window  a  moon,  but  four  days 
old,  looked  at  us  through  the  orange-trees. 

Is  it  strange  that  the  chapter  in  my  Home  of  the  Bible, 
headed  "My  Friends  the  Missionaries,"  was  penned  with 
grateful  memories  too  tender  for  speech? 

455 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

We  had  in  Jerusalem  another  true,  hearty,  and  affec- 
tionate home-welcome.  Dr.  Selah  Merrill,  the  well-known 
archaeologist  and  Oriental  scholar,  had  then  been  United 
States  Consul  at  Jerusalem  for  nine  years.  The  change  of 
administration  in  Washington  had  put  in  his  place  Rev. 
Edwin  Wallace,  and  we  found  both  consuls  still  in  residence 
upon  our  arrival.  It  was  a  happy  combination  for  us.  The 
consuls  and  their  wives  were  settled  in  the  one  good  hotel 
in  the  city — -the  "Grand  New" — to  which  our  incompar- 
able dragoman,  David  Jamal,  conducted  us.  We  frater- 
nized at  sight.  Doctor  Merrill  and  his  successor  were  upon 
most  amicable  terms,  the  senior  and  late  incumbent  doing 
all  in  his  power  to  lessen  the  labors  of  the  novice.  The 
fatherly  kindness  of  one,  and  the  gentle  deference  of  the 
junior,  were  beautiful  to  behold.  We  two  travellers  shared 
the  advantages  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Wallace  in  his  first  visits 
to  memorable  places  in  the  new  home,  of  which  he  has 
written  eloquently  in  his  book — Jerusalem  the  Holy.  I  shall 
always  esteem  as  one  of  the  rarest  bits  of  good-fortune 
which  befell  us  in  our  wanderings  in  storied  lands,  that 
Doctor  Merrill  was  emphatically  our  "guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,"  during  our  stay  in  Southern  Syria.  He,  it 
was,  who  made  out  our  itinerary  when  he  could  not  con- 
duct us  personally,  as  he  did  in  our  expeditions  in  and 
about  Jerusalem. 

I  reckon  the  four,  who  made  the  City  of  the  Great  King 
home  to  us,  among  the  friends  to  whom  rny  obligations  are 
not  to  be  described  in  words.  And  what  royally  "good 
times"  we  had  together!  Had  it  been  in  the  power  of 
Mrs.  Merrill  and  Mrs.  Wallace  to  spare  me  every  possible 
inconvenience  of  tent-life  and  Eastern  transit,  I  should  have 
been  lapped  in  luxury  throughout  our  tour  of  village  and 
desert. 

Of  these  I  have  written  elsewhere,  and  at  length. 


XLVII 

LUCERNE — GOOD  SAMARITANS  AND  AN  ENGLISHMAN — A 
LECTURE  TOUR — OHIO  AN  HOSPITALITY — MR.  AND  MRS. 
MCKINLEY 

Our  homeward  journey  was  performed  in  a  delicious, 
leisurely  fashion.  We  had  worked  hard  for  three  months, 
collecting  material  for  our  prospective  books.  Once  and 
again,  when  we  would  fain  have  had  heart  and  imagination 
free  to  take  in,  at  their  full  value,  associations  connected 
with,  and  emotions  excited  by,  this  or  that  sacred  spot — 
did  we  remind  ourselves  of  the  plaint  of  the  poet,  who 
could  never  give  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  nature, 
because  he  saw,  stamped  upon  sea  and  sky,  mountain 
and  river,  in  huge  capitals — "material."  Neither  of  us 
meant  to  write  up  Egypt,  Rome,  Florence,  Switzerland, 
and  the  British  Isles.  With  very  much  the  joyous  sense 
of  relief  with  which  children  scamper  home,  when  school 
is  out,  we  roamed  and  lingered  to  our  hearts'  content  for 
the  ten  weeks  that  were  left  of  our  vacation.  We  fell  in 
with  congenial  travelling  companions  in  Egypt,  joining 
parties  for  the  run  through  Greece  and  Lower  Italy.  In 
Florence,  we  were  reunited  to  friends  with  whom  we  had 
crossed  the  ocean,  and  did  not  part  from  them  until,  in 
Lucerne,  they  were  summoned  to  Paris,  while  we  planned 
a  stay  of  some  days  in  romantic  regions  endeared  to  us  by 
former  experiences,  when  the  "Boy"  of  Loitering  in  Pleas- 
ant Paths  was  too  young  to  appreciate  the  grandeur  of 
mountain  passes,  snow-capped  heights,  azure  lakes,  and 
historic  cantons. 

457 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Anticipation  received  a  cruel  blow  in  the  beautiful  lake- 
side city  in  which  we  had  passed  the  heart  of  a  memorable 
summer,  fifteen  years  before.  My  son  was  stricken  down 
with  appendicitis  in  Lucerne,  and  I  knew  not  a  human 
creature  beside  himself  in  all  Switzerland!  By  rare  good- 
fortune,  I  recalled  the  name  of  a  physician  with  whom  my 
husband  had  become  acquainted  in  our  former  stay  here, 
and  sent  for  him  at  once.  He  had  retired  from  the  active 
duties  of  his  profession,  resigning  his  practice  to  his  son, 
who  was,  I  learned,  at  the  head  of  the  hospital  in  Lucerne. 

To  my  infinite  relief,  he  informed  me  that  there  would 
be  no  need  of  an  operation  unless  more  serious  symptoms 
should  intervene.  I  subjoin  the  addenda  to  the  verdict 
for  the  benefit  of  those  whom  it  may  concern: 

"You  Americans  are  too  fond  of  the  knife!  It  is  not 
always  necessary  to  cut  out  an  inflamed  appendix.  In 
my  hospital  we  have  had  four  hundred  cases  of  appendi- 
citis within  the  last  ten  years,  and  have  operated  just  forty 
times!  The  patients  recovered  without  the  use  of  the 
knife." 

If  I  had  ever  leaned,  never  so  slightly,  to  misanthropic 
judgment  of  my  fellow-mortals,  I  must  have  been  shamed 
out  of  them  by  the  incidents  of  the  next  fortnight  of  cruel 
anxiety,  and  what  would  have  been  unutterable  loneliness 
but  for  the  exceeding  and  abounding  charity  of  the  strangers 
by  whom  I  was  surrounded. 

"It  is  my  opinion,"  pronounced  the  patient,  when,  on 
Easter  morning,  his  chamber  was  fragrant  with  flowers 
and  brightened  by  cards  and  messages  of  cheer  and  sym- 
pathy— -"my  decided  and  well-grounded  conviction — that 
this  Canton  is  peopled  by  the  posterity  of  the  Good  Samari- 
tan. Even  the  innkeeper  has  taken  a  hand  in  the  mission 
to  the  traveller  on  the  Jericho  Road!" 

The  last  remark  was  drawn  out  by  the  opening  of  a 
great  box  of  violets,  richly  purple,  and  so  freshly  gathered 

458 


GOOD   SAMARITANS  AND   AN    ENGLISHMAN 

that  the  odor  floated  into  the  air,  like  clouds  of  incense, 
with  the  lifting  of  the  cover. 

And,  as  a  sudden  thought  struck  him:  "Have  the 
blasted  Britishers  spoken  yet?" 

"No!  Their  conversation  is  confined  to  their  own 
party." 

I  had  brought  the  like  report  every  day  for  a  week. 
"The  blasted  Britishers,"  for  whom  he  had  no  milder 
name,  were  a  young  man,  his  wife,  and  sister,  who 
were  at  the  end  of  my  table  and  my  nearest  neighbors. 
The  hotel  was  very  full.  A  fair  sprinkling  of  Americans, 
a  few  English,  and  a  mixture  of  French,  Swiss,  Germans, 
and  Italians  made  up  a  crowd  that  changed  daily  in  some 
of  its  features.  From  the  proprietor  down  to  the  porter, 
there  was  not  an  employe  or  official  connected  with  the 
house  who  did  not  inquire,  whenever  I  showed  myself  in 
hall  or  salle  a  manger,  "how  the  young  gentleman  was 
getting  on?"  and  express  the  hope  of  his  early  recovery. 
The  entire  working-staff  of  the  Hotel  de  Cygne  was  at 
our  feet,  and  the  guests  in  the  house  were  assiduous  in 
offers  of  assistance  and  assurances  of  sympathy.  Strangers 
inquired  across  the  table  as  to  the  patient's  condition,  and 
if  there  were  any  way  in  which  they  could  be  of  service. 
The  "B.  B.'s" — as  the  object  of  this  kindly  solicitude 
contemptuously  abbreviated  the  appellation — held  aloof, 
apparently  ignorant  of  my  existence,  much  less  of  the 
cause  of  inquiry  and  response.  They  chatted  together 
pleasantly,  in  subdued,  refined  tones  betokening  the  gentle- 
folk they  were,  but,  for  all  the  sign  they  gave  of  conscious- 
ness of  the  existence  of  the  afflicted  Americans,  they  might 
have  been— to  quote  again  from  the  indignant  youth 
above-stairs — "priest  and  Levite,  rolled  into  one  mass  of 
incarnate  selfishness." 

So  matters  went  on  until  next  to  the  last  day  we  spent 
in  Lucerne.     My  patient  was  on  his  feet  in  his  room,  and 

459 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  been  down-stairs  twice  to  drive  for  an  hour,  and  test 
his  strength  for  the  journey  to  Paris,  which  he  was  im- 
patient to  begin.  I  had  heard  that  there  was  a  sleeping- 
car — a  "wagon-au  lit,"  as  the  Swiss  put  it — upon  one  train 
each  day.  This  I  wished  to  take,  if  possible,  and  to  break 
the  journey  by  stopping  overnight  at  least  once,  in  the 
transit  of  fifteen  hours  that  separated  us  from  the  French 
capital.  It  so  chanced  that  the  talk  of  the  "B.  B.'s"  at 
luncheon  that  day  turned  upon  this  train,  and,  forgetful, 
for  the  moment,  of  their  discourteous  reserve,  I  addressed 
the  man  of  the  party  with — "Pardon  me!  but  can  you  tell 
me  at  what  hour  that  train  leaves  Lucerne,  and  when  it 
reaches  Basle?" 

"With  great  pleasure!"  turning  an  eager  face  upon  me. 
"But  may  I  ask,  first,  how  your  son  is  to-day?  We  have 
inquired  constantly  of  the  proprietor,  and  of  the  doctor, 
when  we  could  see  him,  how  he  was  getting  on.  We  were 
delighted  to  hear  that  he  is  improving,  etc.,  etc.,  etcetera" — 
while  I  was  getting  my  breath,  and  rallying  my  fluttered 
wits.  With  this  preamble,  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  all  he 
knew  of  trains  that  were  likely  to  be  of  service,  volunteer- 
ing to  make  direct  inquiries  at  the  station  that  after- 
noon, and  begging  to  know  in  what  way  he  could  forward 
my  purpose. 

When  I  could  escape,  I  carried  a  bewildered  face  and  soul 
up  to  the  convalescent. 

Then  it  was  that  I  made  the  remark  I  quoted  in  a  former 
chapter,  apropos  of  New  England  "  incommunicableness" : 

"The  ice  is  broken,  and  there  is  warm  water  under  it!" 

We  had  not  finished  discussing  the  idiosyncrasies  of  Old 
and  New  England  when,  half  an  hour  later,  there  came  a 
gentle  tap  at  the  door.  I  opened  it,  and  nearly  swooned 
with  an  access  of  amazement  when  I  saw  the  young 
Englishman. 

He  had  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  began  without  preface: 

460 


GOOD  SAMARITANS  AND  AN  ENGLISHMAN 

"  I  have  made  so  bold  as  to  look  up  the  trains,  don't  you 
know?  And — oh,  I  say"—  breaking  off  as  he  espied  the 
figure  on  the  lounge  through  the  half-opened  door — 
"mayn't  I  come  in  and  see  him?  We  are  both  young  men, 
you  know!" 

He  was  at  the  sofa  by  this  time,  and  shaking  hands  with 
the  occupant.  "Awfully  glad  to  see  you  are  doing  so  well! 
Oh,  by  Jove!"  interrupting  himself  anew,  with  the  frank 
boyishness  that  had  marked  his  entrance.  "I  believe  you 
are  taller  than  I!" 

He  surveyed  the  recumbent  figure  with  undisguised 
admiration. 

"Six  feet,  two-and-a-half,  gymnasium  measure!"  rejoined 
the  other,  laughing. 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  the  cordial  bonhommie  of  the 
self-invited  guest. 

"And  I  six,  three!"  complacently.  "But  a  fellow  looks 
longer  when  he  is  on  his  back.  May  I  sit  down?"  drawing 
up  a  chair  for  me,  and  one  for  himself.  "And  would  it 
tire  you  to  talk  a  bit  about  routes  and  so  on?  Do  you 
think  you  are  really  fit  for  the  jaunt?" 

The  "bit"  of  talk  lasted  an  hour,  and  the  invalid  bright- 
ened with  every  minute.  The  "Britisher"  was  an  army 
man,  at  home  on  leave,  after  ten  years  in  India.  He  had 
travelled  far  and  used  all  his  senses  while  en  route.  He 
was  eloquent  in  praise  of  India,  and  so  diligently  was  the 
time  improved  by  both  the  young  men  that,  in  leaving, 
the  elder  exacted  a  promise  that,  when  the  other  should 
visit  India,  he  would  apply  to  him — the  "B.  B."— for 
letters  of  introduction  to  "some  fellows"  who  might  be 
of  use  to  him.  He  gave  us  his  card,  lest  he  might  not  see 
us  again.  It  bore  the  name  of  a  fashionable  London  hotel, 
at  which  he  "hoped  to  see"  his  new  acquaintance,  since 
he  was  going  to  London  within  the  month.  He  did  see 
us  again,  calling  on  the  morrow  to  ask  if  there  were  any- 

461 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

thing  he  could  do  to  facilitate  our  departure.  He  brought, 
also,  the  compliments  and  good  wishes  of  his  wife  and 
sister  for  our  safe  journey.  The  schedule  of  travel  he  had 
arranged  for  us  was  so  carefully  drawn  up  that  a  fool  could 
not  err  therein. 

We  never  saw  or  neard  from  him  again.  It  was  not  con- 
venient for  Bert  to  call  during  the  brief  stay  we  made  in 
London,  on  the  very  eve  of  sailing  for  home.  And  we  have 
never  yet  been  to  India.  The  "  B.  B."  seemed  not  to  be  able 
to  conceive  the  possibility  that  any  one  who  could  get  to 
that  end  of  the  earth  could  refrain  from  going. 

I  have  seen  enough  of  the  English  since  to  comprehend 
that  this  was  not  a  phenomenal  illustration  of  native  re- 
serve, that  waits  for  the  initiative  from  the  other  party  to 
the  meeting,  and,  like  the  traveller  in  the  fable  of  the  con- 
test between  the  wind  and  sun,  throws  away  the  cloak  of 
strangerhood  as  soon  as  the  first  step  is  taken  by  another. 
I  have  heard  other  anecdotes  descriptive  of  a  characteristic 
which  belies  the  depth  and  warmth  of  the  underlying 
heart,  but  none  that  bring  it  more  prominently  into  view. 
It  is  strange — and  interesting — to  us  of  a  more  emotional 
race,  to  see  the  sudden  leap  of  the  unsealed  fountain. 

During  the  summer  and  autumn  succeeding  our  return 
to  America,  I  utilized  much  of  the  "material"  collected  in 
the  East  in  a  series  of  lectures  delivered  in  seven  different 
States.  For  two  summers  preceding  my  tour  abroad,  I 
had,  in  conjunction  with  Mrs.  Margaret  E.  Sangster,  con- 
ducted what  we  called  "Women's  Councils",  in  various 
Summer  Schools  modelled  upon  the  famous  Chautauquan 
Assemblies.  I  had  hardly  settled  in  the  peaceful  home-nest 
when  applications  from  similar  organizations  began  to 
arrive.  Upon  former  expeditions,  my  husband,  and  some- 
times our  son,  and  Mrs.  Sangster's  nephew,  Bert's  class- 
mate and  chum,  had  accompanied  us,  and  when  the  "Coun- 
cil" adjourned,  we  made  up  a  jolly  party  to  Mackinac 

462 


A    LECTURE    TOUR 

Island  (in  which  beautiful  spot  I  laid  the  scene  of  With  the 
Best  Intentions),  to  Niagara  Falls,  the  Adirondacks,  and 
divers  other  summer  resorts.  Mrs.  Sangster  had  no  share 
in  my  present  lecture  engagements,  and  neither  my  hus- 
band nor  son  could  spare  the  time  to  accompany  me.  In 
the  comparatively  secluded  and  carefully  sheltered  life  of 
to-day,  I  marvel  at  the  courage  that  enabled  me  to  journey 
for  thousands  of  miles,  unattended,  and  to  face  audiences 
that  numbered  from  one  to  two  thousand  women,  with 
never  a  misgiving  as  to  my  reception,  and  perfect  security 
from  annoyance.  Wherever  I  went,  doors  and  hearts 
were  opened  to  me.  But  once,  in  a  series  that  comprised 
twenty  towns  and  villages,  was  I  ever  allowed  to  stay  at 
a  hotel,  and  that  was  for  a  single  night.  The  friends  made 
then  are  cherished  to  this  hour. 

Time  would  fail  me  and  the  patience  of  the  reader  be 
exhausted,  were  I  to  attempt  even  a  catalogue  of  the 
localities  in  which  I  talked,  as  woman  to  woman,  of  what  I 
had  seen  and  heard  in  those  seven  months  of  wandering 
and  study.  If  I  had  never  loved  women  before,  and  held 
in  especial  and  tender  regard  those  of  my  own  country,  I 
must  have  learned  the  sweet  lesson  in  the  unescorted 
itineraries  from  Syracuse,  N.Y.,  to  Chicago;  from  Vermont 
to  Michigan;  from  Richmond,  Va.,  to  Cincinnati.  And  in 
all  the  thousands  of  miles,  and  in  the  intercourse  with 
tens  of  thousands  of  people  whose  faces  I  had  never  seen 
before,  I  had,  in  the  three  lecture  seasons  in  which  I  took 
part,  not  one  unKind  word— received  nothing  but  kindness, 
and  that  continually.  Hospitality  and  brotherly  (and 
sisterly)  love  have  had  new  and  deeper  meaning  to  me, 
ever  since.  I  permit  myself  the  recital  of  two  "  happen- 
ings" in  Ohio,  that  have  historic  interest  in  consideration 
of  subsequent  events. 

After  fulfilling  a  delightful  engagement  at  Monona  Lake 
— near  Madison,  Wisconsin — I  set  out  for  Lakeview,  Ohio, 

463 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

where  I  was  to  hold  a  Women's  Council  for  the  next  week, 
beginning  Monday.  This  was  Saturday  noon,  and  I  was 
to  travel  all  night.  Dr.  T.  De  Witt  Talmagc,  whom  I  had 
seen  at  Monona  Lake,  had  told  me  of  a  branch  road  con- 
necting the  station,  at  which  I  was  to  leave  the  main  line, 
early  Sunday  morning,  with  Lakeview.  I  would  reach  that 
place,  he  said,  by  seven  o'clock,  and  have  a  quiet  Sunday 
to  myself.  This  was  preferable  to  passing  it  in  Chicago  or 
any  other  large  town.  In  the  Madison  station  I  was  so 
fortunate  as  to  meet  Mr.  Hamilton  W.  Mabie  and  Dr. 
Francis  Maurice  Egan,  at  that  time  Professor  of  English 
Literature  in  the  Georgetown  (R.  C.)  University,  and,  sub- 
sequently, United  States  Minister  to  Denmark.  Both  of 
these  distinguished  men  had  been  lecturing  at  Monona  Lake 
Assembly.  The  rest  of  the  day  passed  swiftly  and  brightly. 
Mr.  Mabie  left  us  in  Chicago,  where  we  were  detained  until 
midnight,  on  account  of  some  delay  in  incoming  trains. 
Doctor  Egan,  whose  spirits  never  flagged,  proposed  a  walk 
through  the  illuminated  streets,  and  a  supper  together, 
which  "lark"  we  enjoyed  with  the  zest  of  two  school- 
children. Then  we  returned  to  the  waiting  train,  and 
bade  each  other  "Good-bye." 

The  journey  had  begun  so  auspiciously  that  I  alighted 
from  the  sleeper  in  the  early  dawn,  feeling,  what  the  sport- 
ing Englishman  would  call  "uncommonly  fit,"  and  with 
no  prevision  of  what  lay  before  me. 

For  not  a  symptom  of  the  promised  branch  line  was  to 
be  seen,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach.  There  were  two  houses 
at  the  terminus  of  my  railway  journey.  One  was  the  usual 
station  and  freight-house;  the  other,  a  neat  cottage  a 
stone's-throw  away,  was,  I  found,  the  dwelling  of  the 
station-agent.  He  was  the  one  and  only  human  thing  in 
sight.     Beyond  lay  woods  and  cultivated  fields. 

The  man  was  very  civil,  but  positive  in  the  declaration 
that  the  branch  line  connecting  with  the  Assembly  grounds 

464 


OHIOAN    HOSPITALITY 

was  ten  miles  further  on ;  also,  that  no  trains  ran  over  it 
on  Sunday.  As  at  Monona  Lake,  admission  was  denied 
to  the  public  on  that  day.  Otherwise,  the  ground  would 
be  overrun  by  the  rabble  of  curious  sight-seers.  There 
was  no  hotel  within  five  miles,  and  no  conveyance  to  take 
me  to  it,  or  to  Lakeview. 

The  predicament  was  serious,  yet  it  provoked  me  to 
mirth.  Doctor  Talmage's  directions  to  alight  at  this  par- 
ticular point  (as  he  "had  done  not  a  week  ago7');  my  cheer- 
ful confidence  that  the  day  would  be  as  yesterday,  if  not 
more  abundant  in  enjoyment;  the  immediate  prospect  of 
starvation  and  discomfort,  since  all  the  accommodations 
I  could  command  were  that  one  room  of  the  country  sta- 
tion— made  up  a  picture  at  which  any  woman  must  laugh — 
or  cry.  The  station-master  looked  relieved  that  I  did  not 
weep,  or  whine.  When  I  laughed,  he  smiled  sympatheti- 
cally : 

"If  you  will  sit  here  for  a  few  minutes,"  leading  the 
way  into  the  room  behind  us,  "I'll  step  over  and  talk  to 
my  wife." 

From  that  moment  I  had  no  apprehension  of  further 
misadventures. 

If  I  had  indulged  a  fleeting  misgiving,  it  would  have 
been  dissipated  by  the  sight  of  the  woman  to  whom  I  was 
introduced  when  I  had  accepted  the  invitation  to  "step 
over"  to  the  neat  cottage  a  few  rods  down  the  road. 

It  was  a  veritable  cottage — low-browed  and  cosey,  vine- 
draped,  and  simply  but  comfortably  furnished.  The  mis- 
tress met  me  in  the  door  with  a  cordial  welcome,  and  took 
me  into  her  bedroom  to  wash  away  the  dust  of  travel  and 
lay  off  my  hat.  For  I  was  to  breakfast  with  them,  after 
which  her  husband  would  get  up  the  horse  and  buggy,  and 
she  would  drive  me  over  to  the  Assembly  grounds.  She 
looked,  moved,  and  spoke  like  a  gentlewoman.  Against 
the  background  of  my  late  predicament,  she  wore  the  guise 

465 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  a  ministering  angel.  The  breakfast  was  just  what  she 
had  prepared  for  her  husband.  She  proved  the  quality  of 
her  breeding  there,  too,  in  not  lisping  a  syllable  of  apology. 
None  was  required  for  a  meal  so  well-cooked  and  served, 
but  few  women  would  have  let  the  occasion  pass  of  in- 
forming the  stranger  within  their  gates  how  much  better 
they  might  have  done  had  they  been  notified  of  the  com- 
ing of  "  company."  On  the  road  she  told  me  that  she  had  a 
season-ticket  for  the  Summer  School,  and  that  she  had 
attended  the  sessions  regularly  during  the  week  that  had 
passed  since  it  opened.  She  was  a  pretty  little  body,  becom- 
ingly attired,  and  intelligent  beyond  her  apparent  station. 
I  was  to  learn  more  in  time  of  the  minds  and  manners  of  the 
average  Ohio  woman  and  man,  and  to  be  moved  to  wonder- 
ing admiration  thereby.  The  road,  level  as  a  floor  for  most 
of  the  way,  lay  between  fields,  orchards  and  vineyards  so 
well  cultivated  that  they  recalled  the  husbandry  of  older 
lands.  My  companion  was  au  fait  to  the  agricultural  in- 
terests of  her  native  State,  and#descanted  upon  the  resources 
of  the  region  with  modest  complacency.  The  weather  was 
delicious,  the  drive  a  pleasure.  Not  until  we  were  in  sight 
of  the  lake,  on  the  shores  of  which  the  camp  was  located, 
did  she  suggest  the  possible  difficulty  of  gaining  admission 
to  the  grounds.  She  had  her  ticket,  which  would  pass  her 
on  Sunday,  as  on  week-days.  Perhaps  I  had  one?  I  said, 
"No,"  frankly.  Were  the  rules  very  strict?  She  was 
"afraid  they  were."  It  was  evident  that  she  had  whole- 
some respect  for  the  regulation  barring  out  unlicensed  in- 
truders. My  credentials,  in  the  form  of  letters  and  con- 
tract, were  in  the  trunk  the  station-master  had  engaged 
to  send  over  on  Monday.  Up  to  this  moment  I  was  an 
anonymous  wayfarer  to  my  hosts,  and  I  did  not  care  to 
owe  their  hospitality  to  any  prestige  that  might  attach 
to  an  advertised  name.  So  I  said  we  would  postpone  un- 
easiness until  I  was  actually  refused  admittance  by  the 

466 


MR.  AND    MRS.  McKINLEY 

gate-keeper.  When  he  halted  us,  my  companion  produced 
her  passport,  and  I  offered,  as  warrant  of  my  eligibility,  to 
send  for  Doctor  Lewis,  the  superintendent  of  the  Assembly, 
to  vouch  for  me.  He  gave  me  a  searching  glance,  and 
stood  back  to  let  us  pass. 

I  recognized  my  guardian  angel  in  my  audience  on  Mon- 
day, and  made  it  my  business  and  pleasure  to  seek  her  out 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  lecture. 

"We  made  up  our  minds  last  night,  as  we  were  talking 
it  over,  who  you  were,"  she  remarked,  quietly.  "I  had 
my  list  of  the  speakers,  and  you  were  set  down  for  to-day. 
I  wished,  then,  that  I  had  guessed  the  truth  before." 

I  did  not  echo  the  wish.  My  first  taste  of  Ohio  hospi- 
tality would  have  lost  the  fine  flavor  that  lingers  in  my 
memory,  like  the  aroma  of  old  Falernian  wine.  A  duchess 
of  high  degree  might  have  taken  lessons  in  breeding  and 
Christian  charity  from  the  station-keeper's  wife. 

During  the  week  spent  at  Lakeview  I  had  an  opportu- 
nity, which  I  prize  now  beyond  expression,  of  meeting  Mr. 
McKinley,  then  the  Governor  of  Ohio.  He  passed  a  day 
at  the  principal  hotel  of  the  place  with  his  wife,  and  visited 
the  Assembly.  I  was  invited,  with  other  visitors,  to  dine 
with  him,  and  afterward  to  drive  into  the  country  with 
himself  and  Mrs.  McKinley. 

"The  future  President  of  the  United  States!"  a  friend 
had  said  to  me  when  I  told  her  of  the  projected  drive. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  was  my  answer.  "But  a  good  man 
and  an  honest  politician." 

-  As  he  lifted  his  invalid  wife  into  the  carriage,  a  packet 
of  letters  was  handed  to  me. 

In  taking  his  place  on  the  front  seat  he  begged  me  to 
open  them: 

"Home  letters  should  never  be  kept  waiting." 

"I  will  avail  myself  of  your  kind  permission  so  far  as  to 
look  into  one,"  I  answered.     "It  is  the  daily  bulletin  from 

31  467 


MARION     HARLAND'S     AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

my  husband.  A  glance  at  the  first  paragraph  will  tell  me 
how  matters  are  at  home." 

"A  daily  bulletin!"  repeated  Mr.  McKinley,  as  I  refolded 
the  epistle  after  the  satisfactory  glance. 

"Yes — and  we  have  been  married  nearly  forty  years!" 

"A  commendable  example — "  he  began,  when  his  wife 
caught  him  up: 

"Which  he  does  not  need!  He  never  fails  to  write  to 
me  every  day  when  he  is  away ;  but  when  he  was  in  Wash- 
ington, some  years  ago,  and  I  was  not  well  enough  to  go 
with  him,  he  telegraphed  every  morning  to  know  how  I 
was,  besides  writing  a  long  letter  to  me  in  the  afternoon." 

Laughingly  putting  the  remark  aside,  he  leaned  forward 
to  direct  my  attention  to  a  row  of  hills  on  the  horizon,  and 
to  talk  of  certain  historical  associations  connected  with 
that  part  of  the  State.  She  resumed  the  topic,  awhile  later, 
descanting  in  a  low  tone  upon  his  unwearied  regard  for 
her  health,  his  tender  solicitude,  his  skill  as  a  nurse,  and 
similar  themes,  drawn  on  by  my  unfeigned  interest  in  the 
story,  until  he  checked  her,  with  the  same  light  laugh: 

"Ida,  my  dear!  you  are  making  Mrs.  Terhune  lose  the 
finest  points  in  the  landscape  we  brought  her  out  to 
admire." 

"Permit  me  to  remind  you  that  there  are  moral  beauties 
better  worth  my  attention,"  retorted  I. 

He  lifted  his  hat,  with  a  bright  look  that  went  from  my 
face  to  dwell  upon  that  of  the  fragile  woman  opposite  him, 
with  affectionate  appreciation,  and  full  confidence  that  I 
would  comprehend  the  feeling  that  led  her  to  praise  him 
— a  flashing  smile,  I  despair  of  describing  as  it  deserves.  It 
transfigured  his  face  into  beauty  I  can  never  forget.  In 
all  my  thoughts  of  the  man  who  became  the  idol  of  his 
compatriots,  dying,  like  a  martyr  -  hero,  with  a  plea  for 
mercy  for  the  insane  assassin  upon  his  lips,  I  recur  to  that 
incident  in  my  brief  personal  acquaintanceship  with  him, 

468 


MR.  AND    MRS.  McKINLEY 

as  a  revelation  of  what  was  purest  and  sweetest  in  a  nature 
singularly  strong  and  gentle. 

In  relating  the  little  by-play  to  my  dear  friend,  Mrs. 
Waite,  the  widow  of  the  Chief -Justice,  then  living  in  Wash- 
ington, I  said  that  it  was  a  pity  to  see  a  man  in  Mr. 
McKinley's  exalted  and  responsible  position  tied  to  the 
arm-chair  of  a  hopeless  invalid,  who  could  contribute  noth- 
ing to  his  usefulness  in  any  relation  of  life. 

"He  owes  more  to  her  than  the  public  will  ever  sus- 
pect," was  the  reply.  "We  knew  him  from  a  boy,  and 
watched  his  early  struggles  upward.  His  wife  was  his 
guiding  star,  his  right  hand.  She  was,  then,  a  woman  of 
unusual  personal  and  mental  gifts,  more  ambitious  for  him 
than  he  was  for  himself.  My  husband  often  said  that  she 
was  Mr.  McKinley's  inspiration.  Those  who  have  never 
known  her  except  as  the  fragile,  nerveless  creature  she  is 
now,  cannot  imagine  what  she  was  before  the  deaths  of 
her  children  and  her  terrible  illness  left  her  the  wreck 
you  see.  But  he  does  not  forget  what  she  was,  and  what 
she  did  for  him." 

I  treasured  the  tribute  gratefully,  and  I  never  failed  to 
quote  it  when  I  heard — as  was  frequent  during  Mr.  McKin- 
ley's administration — contemptuous  criticism  of  the  help- 
less, sickly  woman — the  poor  shade  of  the  First  Lady  of 
the  Land — whose  demands  upon  his  time  and  care  were 
un  remittent  and  heavy.  He  was  held  up  to  the  world  by 
his  eulogists  as  a  Model  Husband,  a  Knight  of  To-day, 
whose  devotion  never  wavered.  As  my  now  sainted 
mentor  said,  few  of  the  admiring  multitude  guessed  at 
his  debt  of  gratitude  and  at  his  chivalrous  remembrance 
of  the  same. 


XLVIII 

THE    CLOUDS    RETURN    AFTER   THE    RAIN — ABROAD    AGAIN — 
HEALING  AND  HEALTH — IDYLLIC  WINTER  IN  FLORENCE 

What  one  of  Doctor  Terhune's  biographers  has  alluded 
to  as  his  "splendid  vitality,"  had  been  cruelly  taxed  by 
his  professional  labors  in  his  first  charge  in  Brooklyn. 
With  a  strong  man's  aversion  to  the  acknowledgment  of 
physical  weakness,  he  had  fought,  with  heroic  courage  and 
reserve,  the  inroads  of  a  disease  that  was  steadily  sapping 
his  constitution  and  vigor.  None  except  his  physician  and 
myself  dreamed  of  the  gnawing  pain  that  was  never  quiet 
during  his  waking  hours,  and  robbed  the  nights  of  rest. 
The  services  of  Sunday  left  him  as  weak  as  a  child,  and 
stretched  him  upon  the  rack  all  of  that  night.  When,  the 
work  he  had  assigned  to  himself  soon  after  accepting  the 
pastorate  of  the  Bedford  Avenue  Church  having  been  ac- 
complished, he  resigned  the  position,  and  quoted  his  physi- 
cian's advice  that  he  should  take  a  few  months  of  rest  and 
change  of  scene — the  information  was  couched  in  terms  so 
light  that,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  of  his  chosen 
and  most  faithful  friends,  his  parishioners  had  no  suspicion 
of  his  real  condition.  The  public  press  hazarded  the  wild- 
est and  most  absurd  guesses  at  the  causes  that  had  stirred 
the  nest  he  had  builded  wisely  and  well  during  the  last 
seven  years. 

Perhaps  the  theory  that  amused  us  most,  and  flew  most 
widely  from  the  mark,  was  "that  his  wife — known  to  the 
public  as  '  Marion  Harland ' — took  no  interest  in  church- 

470 


THE  CLOUDS  RETURN  AFTER  THE  RAIN 

work — in  fact,  never  attended  church  at  all."  My  class 
of  forty-four  splendid  "  boys" — the  youngest  being  twenty- 
one  years  of  age — begged  to  be  allowed  to  look  up  the 
imaginative  reporter  and,  as  the  Springfield  member  of  the 
Church  Militant  had  proposed,  "fire  him  out."  Calmer 
counter-statements  from  older  heads,  and  hearts  as  loyal, 
met  the  assertion  in  print  and  in  private.  To  me,  it 
weighed  less  than  a  grain  of  dust  in  the  greater  solicitude 
that  engrossed  my  thoughts.  For,  in  a  week  after  the 
formal  resignation  of  his  office,  the  patient  sufferer  was 
under  the  surgeon's  knife. 

They  called  it  "a  minor  operation,"  and  enjoined  com- 
plete rest,  for  a  month  or  so,  that  ought  to  bring  recu- 
peration of  energies  so  sadly  depleted  that  those  who  knew 
him  best  were  urgent  in  the  entreaty  that  the  mandate 
should  be  obeyed.  He  "rested"  in  the  blessed  quiet  of 
Sunnybank  for  a  couple  of  months;  then  set  out  for  a 
leisurely  jaunt  westward.  He  had  been  invited  to  preach 
in  Omaha,  and  thought  that  he  would  "take  a  look  at  the 
country"  which  he  had  never  visited.  He  got  no  further 
than  Chicago,  falling  in  love  with  the  warm-hearted  people 
of  a  church  which  he  agreed  to  supply  for  "a  few  weeks." 
The  weeks  grew  into  seven  months  of  active  and  satisfying 
work  among  his  new  parishioners.  Our  eldest  daughter 
was  with  him  part  of  the  time,  and  I  went  to  him  for  a  visit 
of  considerable  length,  returning  home  with  the  sad  con- 
viction, deep  down  in  my  soul,  that  to  accept  the  offered 
"call"  to  a  permanent  pastorate  would  be  suicidal.  He 
could  never  do  half-way  work,  and  he  loved  the  duties  of 
his  profession  with  a  love  that  never  abated.  By  the  be- 
ginning of  the  next  summer,  he  was  forced  to  admit  to 
himself  that  his  physical  powers  were  inadequate  to  the 
task  laid  to  his  hand.  Yet,  on  the  way  home,  he  was  lured 
into  agreeing  to  supply  the  pulpit  of  a  friend,  a  St.  Louis 
clergyman,  during  the  vacation  of  the  latter,   preaching 

471 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

zealously  and  eloquently  for  five  weeks,  and  this  in  the  heat 
of  a  Missourian  summer. 

It  was  but  a  wreck  of  his  old,  buoyant  self  that  he 
brought  back  to  us.  Confident  in  his  ability  to  rise  above 
"temporary  weakness,"  he  insisted  that  "Sunnybank  and 
home-rest  were  all  he  needed  to  set  him  up  again  as  good 
as  new." 

I  had  said  once,  jestingly,  in  his  hearing,  after  his  quick 
recovery  from  a  short  and  sharp  attack  of  illness: 

"  It  is  hard  to  kill  a  Terhune.  Nothing  is  really  effectual 
except  a  stroke  of  lightning,  and  that  will  paralyze  but  one 
side.     None  of  them  die  under  ninety!" 

He  reminded  me  of  the  foolish  speech,  many  and  many 
a  time,  in  the  weeks  that  dragged  themselves  by  us  who 
watched  the  steady  ebb  of  vital  forces  and  the  pitiable 
failure  of  all  remedial  agencies.  He  was  the  finest  horse- 
man I  have  ever  known,  and,  as  I  have  already  said,  sat 
his  saddle  as  if  he  were  a  part  of  the  spirited  animal  he  be- 
strode. "Let  me  once  get  into  the  saddle  again,  and  all 
will  be  right,"  had  been  his  hopeful  prognostication  in  every 
illness  prior  to  this  mysterious  disorder.  He  mounted  his 
horse  a  few  times  after  he  got  home,  and  rode  for  a  mile  or 
two,  but  listlessly  and  with  pain.  Then  he  ceased  to  ask 
for  the  old-time  tonic  that  had  acted  like  a  magic  potion 
upon  the  exhausted  body,  in  answer  to  the  indomitable 
spirit.  The  spring  of  desire  and  courage  was  not  broken, 
but  it  bent  more  and  more  visibly  daily,  until  it  was  a 
gray  wraith  of  the  former  man  that  lay,  hour  after  hour, 
upon  the  library  sofa,  uncomplaining  and  patient,  utterly 
indifferent  to  things  that  once  brought  light  to  the  eyes 
and  ring  to  the  voice.  Even  his  voice — a  marvel  up  to 
seventy-five,  for  sweetness,  resonance,  and  strength — qua- 
vered and  broke  when  he  forced  himself  to  speak. 

In  this,  our  sore  and  unprecedented  extremity,  we  who 
watched   him   took  counsel   together  and  urged  him  to 

472 


THE  CLOUDS  RETURN  AFTER  THE  RAIN 

go  to  the  city  and  consult  Doctor  McBurney,  the  ablest 
specialist  and  surgeon  in  New  York,  and  with  no  superior 
in  America.  The  patient  offered  feeble  opposition.  It 
was  easier  to  do  as  we  wished,  than  to  argue  the  point. 
Our  eldest  daughter  was  living  in  New  York,  and  not  far 
from  the  surgeon.  We  lost  no  time  in  securing  an  appoint- 
ment, and  the  surgeon  was  prompt  in  decision.  "The 
minor  operation,"  in  which  he  had  had  no  hand,  was  well 
enough  as  far  as  scalpel  and  probe  had  gone,  but  the  seat 
of  the  malady  was  left  untouched.  There  was  a  malig- 
nant internal  growth  which  had  already  poisoned  the  blood. 
To  delay  a  "major  operation"  a  fortnight,  would  be  to  for- 
feit the  one  and  only  chance  of  life.  It  might  already  be 
too  late. 

In  three  days  the  almost  dying  man  was  in  the  Pres- 
byterian Hospital,  and  under  the  knife. 

I  hasten  past  the  month  that  followed.  With  clean 
blood,  a  temperate  life,  and  a  superb  constitution  as  his 
backers,  my  brave  husband  stood  once  more  upon  his  feet, 
and  was  apparently  upon  the  highroad  to  recovery.  When 
he  was  restored  to  our  home-circle  in  season  for  the  Christ- 
mas festivities,  we  rejoiced  without  a  prevision  of  possible 
further  ill  from  the  hateful  cause,  now  forever  removed,  as 
we  fondly  believed.  Early  in  January,  I  had  a  sudden 
and  violent  hemorrhage  from  the  lungs,  superinduced,  we 
were  told  by  the  eminent  specialist  summoned  immedi- 
ately, by  the  long-continued  nervous  strain  and  general 
weakening  of  the  entire  system. 

Doctor  Terhune  took  me  to  the  train  when  I  set  out  upon 
the  southern  trip  prescribed  strenuously  by  consulting 
practitioners.  My  dearest  and  faithful  brother  was  to 
meet  me  on  the  last  stage  of  my  easy  journey.  When  the 
late  invalid  waved  his  hat  to  me  from  the  platform  as  the 
train  began  to  move,  I  noted  with  pride  and  devout  grati- 
tude, how  clear  were  his  blue  eyes,  how  healthful  his  com- 

473 


MARION  HARLAND'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

plexion,  and,  looking  back  as  far  as  I  could  catch  sight  of 
him,  that  his  step  had  the  elasticity  of  a  boy  of  twenty. 

He  wrote  daily  to  me,  and  in  the  old,  lively  fashion,  for 
three  weeks.  Then  a  letter  dictated  by  him  to  Christine 
told  of  a  boil  upon  his  wrist  that  hindered  pen-work.  I 
"was  not  to  be  uneasy.  It  was  probably  a  wholesome 
working  out  of  the  virus  of  original  sin.  He  would  be  all 
the  better  when  the  system  was  freed  from  it." 

I  wrote  at  once,  begging  that  nothing  might  be  concealed 
from  me,  and  setting  a  day  for  my  return. 

A  telegram  from  my  husband  forbade  me  to  stir  until 
the  time  originally  named  as  the  limit  of  my  visit.  And 
the  daily  letters  continued  to  arrive.  One,  I  recollect, 
began : 

"A  second  rising,  farther  up  the  arm,  is  'carrying  on  the 
work  of  purification/  So  says  the  poor  Pater,  with  a  rueful 
glance  at  his  bandaged  hand  and  arm.  If  it  were  only  the 
left,  and  not  the  right  hand,  he  would  not  have  to  put  up 
with  this  unworthy  amanuensis." 

Those  six  weeks  in  Richmond  stand  out  in  memory  like 
sunlighted  peaks  seen  between  clouds  that  gathered  below 
and  all  around  it.  My  brother's  wife,  the  cherished  girl- 
friend of  our  Newark  life,  was  so  far  from  well  that  we 
enacted  the  roles  of  semi-invalids  in  company.  Sometimes 
we  breakfasted  in  her  room,  sometimes  in  mine,  as  the 
humor  seized  us.  I  lounged  in  one  easy-chair,  and  she  in 
another,  all  the  forenoon,  making  no  pretence  of  occupa- 
tion. Had  we  not  been  straitly  commanded  to  do  nothing 
but  get  well?  We  drove  out  in  company,  every  moderately 
fine  day.  When  we  tired  of  talking  (which  was  seldom), 
we  had  our  books.  I  sent  to  a  book-store  for  a  copy  of 
Barrie's  Margaret  Ogilvie  —  the  matchless  tribute  of  the 
brilliant  son  to  the  peasant  woman  from  whom  he  drew 
all  that  was  noblest  and  highest  in  himself — and  gave  it  to 

474 


THE  CLOUDS  RETURN  AFTER  THE  RAIN 

my  fellow-invalid  to  read.  Then  we  talked  it  over — we 
two  mothers — tenderly  and  happily,  as  befitted  the  parents 
of  grown  children  who  were  fulfilling  our  best  hopes  for 
them.  I  repeated  to  her  once,  in  the  twilight  of  a  winter 
afternoon,  as  we  sat  before  the  blazing  fire  of  soft  coal 
that  tinted  the  far  corners  of  the  library  a  soft,  dusky 
red — a  stanza  of  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen's  Rock  Me  to  Sleep, 
Mother: 

"Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  have  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, 
Faithful    unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours." 

"That  is  one  of  my  husband's  favorite  songs,"  I  said. 
"I  often  sing  it  to  him  and  to  Bert  in  the  twilights  at 
home."  And  with  a  little  laugh,  I  added:  "My  boy  asked 
me  once  to  emphasize  'patient.'  He  says  that  is  the 
strongest  characteristic  of  the  mother's  love." 

"They  repay  us  for  it  all!"  was  the  fervent  reply. 

And  I  returned  as  feelingly,  "Yes,  a  thousandfold." 

She  was  ever  the  true,  unselfish  woman,  generous  in  im- 
pulse and  in  action,  sweet  and  sound  to  the  very  core  of  her 
great  heart.  We  had  loved  each  other  without  a  shadow 
of  changing  for  over  thirty  years.  In  all  our  intercourse 
there  is  nothing  upon  which  I  dwell  with  such  fondness 
as  on  the  days  that  slipped  by  brightly  and  smoothly, 
that  late  January  and  early  February.  If  I  observed 
with  regret  that  I  rallied  from  my  sudden  seizure  more 
rapidly  than  she  threw  off  the  languor  and  loss  of  appe- 
tite which,  she  assured  us,  over  and  over,  "meant  next  to 
nothing "  —  I  was  not  seriously  uneasy  at  what  I  saw. 
She  had  not  been  strong  for  the  last  year.  Time  would 
restore  her,  surely.  She  had  just  arisen  on  the  morning 
of  my  departure,  when  I  went  into  her  room  to  say,  "Good- 

475 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

bye."  She  smiled  brightly  as  I  put  my  arms  about  her 
and  bade  her,  "Hurry  up  and  return  my  visit." 

"You  will  see  me  before  long,"  she  said,  confidently. 
"As  soon  as  I  can  bear  the  journey  I  shall  go  to  Newark. 
My  native  air  always  brings  healing  on  its  wings." 

My  beloved  friend  Mrs.  Waite  had  passed  from  earth, 
six  months  before.  The  visit  I  paid  at  her  house,  on  the 
way  back  to  New  York,  was  the  first  I  had  made  there 
since  the  beauty  of  her  presence  was  withdrawn. 

On  the  morning  after  my  arrival  I  had  a  long  letter  from 
Christine.     It  began  ominously: 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make.  Father  has  been  far  more 
indisposed  than  I  would  let  you  think.  Do  not  blame  me.  I 
have  acted  under  orders  from  him  and  from  the  doctor. 
Neither  would  hear  of  your  recall.  Not  that  this  relapse  is 
a  dangerous  matter.  The  'boils'  were  a  return  of  the  old 
trouble.  He  has  not  left  his  bed  for  a  fortnight.  I  thought 
it  best  to  prepare  you  for  seeing  him  there." 

An  hour  later  I  had  a  telegram  from  my  brother: 
"M.  is  decidedly  worse.     We  apprehend  heart-failure." 

Again  I  say,  I  would  shorten  the  recital  of  how  the  clouds 
returned  after  the  rain  which  we  had  believed  would  clear 
the  atmosphere. 

I  was  seated  at  the  bedside  of  my  husband,  who  aroused 
himself  with  difficulty  to  speak  to  me,  as  one  shakes  off  a 
stupor,  relapsing  into  slumber  with  the  murmured  welcome 
on  his  fevered  lips,  when  a  dispatch  was  brought  to  me 
from  Richmond. 

My  sister-in-love  had  died  that  afternoon. 

Five  months  to  a  day,  from  the  beginning  of  my  hus- 
band's serious  illness,  he  was  brought  down-stairs  in  the 
arms  of  a  stalwart  attendant,  and  lifted  into  a  carriage 
for  his  first  ride.     We  drove  to  the  neighboring  Central 

476 


THE  CLOUDS  RETURN  AFTER  THE  RAIN 

Park,  and  were  threading  the  leafy  avenues  before  the  con- 
valescent offered  to  speak.  Then  the  tone  was  of  one  dazed 
into  disbelief  of  what  was  before  his  eyes: 

"The  last  time  I  was  out  of  doors,  the  ground  was  cov- 
ered with  snow.  I  am  like  those  that  dream.  I  never 
knew  until  now  what  a  beautiful  place  the  world  is!" 

It  was  glorious  in  July  verdure  when  we  got  him  back 
to  Sunnybank.  There  was  no  talk  now  of  the  saddle,  and 
the  briefest  of  drives  fatigued  him  to  faintness.  What- 
ever the  doctors  might  say  as  to  the  ultimate  elimination 
of  the  hidden  poison  they  had  found  so  difficult  to  drive 
out,  watchers,  who  had  more  at  stake  in  the  issue  of  his 
protracted  illness,  failed  to  see  the  proof  that  skill  had 
effected  what  they  claimed.  After  the  glow  of  pleasure  at 
getting  home  again  subsided,  he  relapsed  into  the  old  lassi- 
tude and  sad  indifference  to  what  was  going  on  about 
him ;  his  eyes  were  dull ;  his  tone  was  lifeless ;  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  ever  had  appetite  for 
food. 

At  last,  one  day,  as  I  sat  fanning  him,  while  he  lay  on 
the  wicker  sofa  on  the  vine-clad  veranda,  regarding  neither 
lake  nor  mountain,  and  smiling  wanly  at  my  chatter  of  the 
seven  birds'-nests  in  the  honeysuckle,  from  which  the  last 
fledgling  had  been  coaxed  away  by  their  parents  that 
morning — an  inspiration  came  to  me.  I  laid  my  hand  on 
his  to  make  sure  that  he  would  be  aroused  to  listen,  and 
stooped  to  the  ear  that  shared  in  the  deadening  of  the  rest 
of  the  body. 

"What  do  you  say  to  going  abroad  again — and  very 
soon?" 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  lifting  his  head  to  look  directly 
at  me. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

I  repeated  the  query. 

He  lay  back  with  closed  lids  for  so  long  I  thought  he 

477 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  asleep.  Then  an  echo  of  his  own  voice,  as  it  was  in 
the  olden  time,  said: 

"  I  think,  if  I  could  once  more  hear  the  rush  of  the  waves 
against  the  keel  of  the  steamer,  and  feel  the  salt  air  on  my 
face,  it  would  bring  me  back  to  life.  But — where's  the 
use  of  dreaming  of  it?  I  shall  never  be  strong  enough  to 
go  on  board." 

"You  will,  and  you  shall!  You  saved  my  life  by  taking 
me  abroad.  We  will  try  the  efficacy  of  your  own  pre- 
scription." 

I  think  that  not  one  of  the  crowd  of  friends  who  came 
down  to  the  steamer  to  see  us  off,  had  any  hope  of  seeing 
again  his  living  face.  I  heard,  afterward,  that  they  said 
as  much  among  themselves,  when  the  resolutely  cheerful 
farewrells  had  been  spoken,  and  they  stood  watching  the 
vessel's  slow  motion  out  of  the  dock,  the  eyes  of  all  fixed 
upon  one  figure  recumbent  in  a  deck-chair,  a  thin  hand  re- 
sponding to  the  fluttering  handkerchiefs  above  the  throng 
on  the  end  of  the  pier. 

Our  son  was  there  with  his  betrothed,  who  wrote  to  me 
afterward  that  he  was  "depressed  to  despondency."  Belle, 
with  her  husband  and  boys,  would  occupy  Sunnybank 
while  we  were  away.  Christine  had  insisted  that  it  was 
not  kind  or  safe  to  leave  to  me  the  sole  care  of  the  invalid. 
In  the  three  weeks  that  elapsed  between  the  "inspiration" 
and  our  embarkation,  the  brave  girl  had  wound  up  all 
affairs  that  would  detain  her  in  America,  and  made  her- 
self and  two  sons  ready  to  accompany  us.  The  party  was 
completed  by  the  faithful  maid  who  had  nursed  her  chil- 
dren from  infancy,  and  who  was  quite  competent  to  aid 
me  in  nursely  offices  to  the  patient  for  whose  sake  the 
desperate  expedition  was  undertaken. 

He  averred,  in  later  life,  that  he  felt  an  impulse  of  new 
life  with  the  first  revolution  of  the  paddle-wheel.  Certain 
it  is  that  he  showed  signs  of  rallying  before  twenty-four 

478 


ABROAD    AGAIN 

hours  had  passed,  spending  all  the  daylight  hours  upon 
deck,  and,  before  the  voyage  was  half  over,  joining  in  our 
promenades  from  bow  to  stern.  Always  an  excellent  sailor, 
he  drank  in  the  sea-breeze  as  he  might  have  quaffed  so 
much  nectar.  The  only  complaint  that  escaped  him  was 
that, "  whereas  he  had  been  promised  an  eleven  days'  voyage, 
we  steamed  up  the  Clyde  on  the  afternoon  of  the  ninth  day." 

A  series  of  jaunts  in  Scotland  and  England  was  the  prel- 
ude to  our  settling  down  in  Florence  for  the  winter. 

Had  I  no  other  reason  to  urge  for  my  deep  and  abiding 
love  for  that  fairest  and  dearest  of  Italian  cities,  it  would 
suffice  me  to  recollect  the  unutterable  peace  and  full  con- 
tent of  that  memorable  half-year. 

Friends,  old  and  new,  clustered  about  us,  and  lent  the 
charm  of  home  to  the  cosey  apartment  in  Via  San  Giuseppe, 
where  the  gentle  flow  of  domestic  life  was  bright  with  the 
shining  of  present  happiness  and  rekindled  hope  of  the 
future.  We  learned  to  know  "La  Bella"  at  her  best  in 
those  halcyon  days.  The  boys  were  at  a  day-school ;  thanks 
to  our  efficient  "padrona,"  there  were  no  household  anx- 
ieties, and  we  seniors  were  free  to  enjoy  to  the  full  all  that 
makes  up  the  inestimable  riches  of  the  storied  city. 

Doctor  Terhune  and  I  claimed  the  privilege  of  convales- 
cent and  custodian,  in  declining  to  accept  invitations  to 
evening  functions,  thus  securing  opportunity  for  what  we 
loved  far  better  than  the  gayest  of  "entertainments" — 
long,  quiet  hours  spent  in  our  sitting-room  "under  the 
evening  lamp,"  I,  busy  with  needle- work  or  knitting,  while 
he  read  aloud,  after  the  dear  old  fashion,  works  on  Floren- 
tine history,  art,  and  romance,  all  tending  to  enfold  us 
more  closely  with  the  charmed  atmosphere  of  the  region. 
It  would  be  laughable  to  one  who  has  never  fallen  under 
the  nameless  spell  of  Florence  to  know  how  often,  that 
season,  we  repeated  aloud,  as  the  book  was  laid  aside  for 
the  night: 

479 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. " 

Letters  from  home  were  frequent  and  regular.  Much 
was  happening  across  the  water  while  we  revelled  in  our 
dreams.  The  Spanish  War  was  on.  It  was  begun  and 
ended  during  our  peace-fraught  exile.  In  January,  our 
boy  took  unto  himself  the  young  wife  to  whom  he  had  been 
troth-plight  for  a  year,  and  we  were  the  easier  in  mind  for 
the  knowledge  that  this,  the  last  of  our  unwedded  bairns, 
was  no  longer  without  a  home  of  his  own. 

In  the  spring  we  travelled  at  pleasure  through  Switzer- 
land and  Belgium,  and  so  to  England — my  husband  and  I 
now  in  the  solitude  a  deux  beloved  by  congenial  souls. 
Christine  and  her  sons  were  left  in  Switzerland  for  a  longer 
tour  of  that  country. 

Still  wandering,  lingering,  and  dreaming,  in  the  long, 
delicious  calm  succeeding  the  darkest  and  stormiest  period 
our  united  lives  were  ever  to  know,  we  revisited  English 
villages  and  towns,  and  made  acquaintance  in  Scotland 
with  new  and  enchanting  scenes,  until  the  September  day 
when  we  took  passage  from  Glasgow  for  New  York. 

We  steamed  into  our  harbor  on  Sunday  afternoon,  just 
as  the  news  of  peace  between  the  warring  nations  was 
acclaimed  through  the  megaphone  to  incoming  craft,  and 
thundered  from  the  mouths  of  rejoicing  cannon. 


XLIX 

THE  GOING-OUT  OF  A  YOUNG  LIFE — PRESENT  ACTIVITIES 
"  LITERARY  HEARTHSTONES  "  —  GRATEFUL  REMINIS- 
CENCES 

As  upon  our  return  from  foreign  lands  nearly  twenty 
years  before  this  home-coming,  Sunnybank  was  now  our 
pied  a  terre.  Our  daughter,  Mrs.  Van  de  Water,  and  her 
family  had  occupied  it  during  our  absence.  It  was,  there- 
fore, not  merely  swept  and  garnished  for  our  reception, 
but  the  spirit  of  Home,  sweet,  radiant,  and  indescribable, 
was  in  full  possession.  We  were  settled  in  the  nest  within 
an  hour  after  we  drove  up  to  the  open  door.  A  week  later, 
the  happy  circle  was  widened  by  the  arrival  of  our  son  and 
his  young  wife  from  the  Adirondacks.  A  second  attack 
of  appendicitis  had  made  an  operation  imperatively  neces- 
sary. It  was  performed  in  July,  and  as  soon  as  the  patient 
was  strong  enough  to  travel,  he  was  sent  to  the  mountains 
for  recuperation.  The  pair  were  our  guests  for  four  weeks. 
Then  they  returned  to  town  to  prepare  for  the  house- 
keeping upon  which  they  had  planned  to  enter  in  October. 
Happy  letters,  telling  of  the  preparations  going  briskly 
forward,  and  filled  with  domestic  details,  than  which  noth- 
ing in  the  wide  world  was  more  fascinating  to  the  little 
wife,  reminded  us  of  the  contented  cooings  of  mating 
pigeons,  or,  as  I  told  the  prospective  housewife,  of  the 
purring  of  the  kittens  she  loved  to  fondle  under  the  honey- 
suckles of  the  veranda,  while  with  us. 

On  October  5th  an  unexpected  telegram    brought  the 

481 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

news  of  the  premature  birth  of  a  baby  daughter,  and  that 
"mother  and  child  were  doing  well."  Four  days  later,  a 
second  dispatch  summoned  us  to  New  York.  The  tiny 
girl  was  but  four  days  old  when  her  gentle  mother  passed 
quietly  out  of  the  life,  so  rich  in  love  and  hope  that,  up 
to  the  hour  when  she  laid  herself  down  cheerfully  upon 
her  couch  of  pain,  she  was,  to  use  her  own  words,  "almost 
frightened  at  her  own  happiness." 

She  was  married  on  January  10,  1898.  We  bore  her  to 
her  last  home  October  12th  of  the  same  year.  She  sleeps 
in  the  quiet  "God's  Acre,"  back  of  the  old  colonial  church 
in  Pompton,  in  the  heart  of  the  fairest  of  New  Jersey 
valleys.  A  peaceful  spot  it  is,  cradled  by  the  everlasting 
hills.  There  were  but  three  graves  in  our  family  plot 
when  we  took  her  there.     There  are  five,  now. 

We  spent  that  winter  in  the  city,  and  our  boy  was  again 
one  of  our  small  household.  But  for  the  care  and  the 
blessed  comfort  of  the  baby  daughter,  the  light  and  life 
of  hearts  and  house,  we  might  have  fancied  the  events  of 
the  last  five  years  a  dream,  and  that  we  were  once  more 
the  busy  trio  with  whom  time  had  sped  so  swiftly  and 
brightly  while  "Bert"  was  in  college.  We  were  busy  now 
as  then.  Doctor  Terhune  preached  with  tolerable  regular- 
ity in  different  churches,  and  he  was  ever  a  diligent  stu- 
dent. Bert  wrought  faithfully  in  his  chosen  profession  of 
journalism,  and  I  accepted  in,  1901,  the  charge  of  a  Wom- 
an's Syndicate  page  established  by  The  North  American,  in 
Philadelphia.  I  had  never  been  idle.  Month  after  month, 
work  was  laid  to  my  hands  that  pleased  my  taste,  and  occu- 
pied all  the  time  I  could  devote  to  literary  tasks.  When 
I  agreed  to  take  on  the  new  burden,  it  was  with  no  fore- 
casting of  what  proportions  it  might  assume. 

"What  do  these  women  write  to  you  about?"  asked  the 
proprietor  of  the  paper  under  the  auspices  of  which  the 
syndicate  was  carried  on. 

482 


PRESENT    ACTIVITIES 

I  answered,  laughingly,  "Everything — from  Marmalade 
to  Matrimony." 

When  he  put  the  question,  I  was  representing  the  need 
of  an  assistant,  since  I  was  getting  twenty  letters  per 
diem.  Four  years  later,  a  secretary  and  a  stenographer 
shared  the  labor  of  keeping  in  touch  with  writers  who 
poured  in  upon  my  desk  an  average  mail  of  one  hundred 
letters  a  day.  Two  years  afterward,  the  average  was  over 
a  thousand  a  week. 

I  have  been  asked  often  why  I  expend  energies  and  fill 
my  days  in  what  my  critics  are  pleased  to  depreciate 
as  "hack-work."  Nobody  believes  my  assertion  that  I 
heartily  enjoy  being  thus  brought  into  intimate  associa- 
tion with  the  women  of  America.  The  Syndicate  has  ex- 
tended its  territory  into  twenty-five  States,  and  it  is  still 
growing.  Women,  boys,  and  girls,  and  housefathers — no 
less  than  housemothers — tell  me  of  their  lives,  their  suc- 
cesses, their  failures,  their  trials,  and  their  several  prob- 
lems. From  the  mighty  mass  of  correspondence  I  select 
letters  dealing  with  topics  of  general  interest,  or  that  seem 
to  call  for  free  and  friendly  discussion,  and  base  upon  them 
daily  articles  for  the  Syndicate  public.  Thousands  of  let- 
ters contain  stamps  for  replies  by  mail.  Out  of  this  germ 
of  "hack-work"  has  grown  "The  Helping-Hand  Club,"  an 
informal  organization,  with  no  "plant"  except  my  desk 
and  the  postal  service  that  transports  applications  for 
books,  magazines,  and  such  useful  articles  as  correspond- 
ents know  will  be  welcome  to  the  indigent,  the  shut-in, 
the  aged,  charitable  societies  and  missions  in  waste 
places.  Quietly,  and  without  parade,  our  volunteer  agents 
visit  the  needy,  and  report  to  us.  We  distribute,  by  cor- 
respondence, thousands  of  volumes  and  periodicals  an- 
nually; we  bring  together  supply  and  demand,  "without 
money  and  without  price,"  and  in  ways  that  would  appear 
ridiculous  to  some,  and  incredible  to  many. 
32  483 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"For  Love's  Sake"  is  our  motto,  and  it  is  caught  up 
eagerly,  from  Canada  to  California.  "The  Big  Family,"  they 
call  themselves — these  dear  co-workers  of  mine  whose 
faces  I  shall  never  see  on  earth.  When,  as  happens  daily, 
I  read,  "Dear  Mother  of  us  all,"  from  those  I  have  been 
permitted  to  help  in  mind,  body,  or  estate,  I  thank  the 
Master  and  take  courage. 

After  eight  years'  active  service  in  the  field  so  strangely 
appointed  to  me  that  I  cannot  but  recognize  (and  with 
humble  gratitude)  the  direct  leading  of  the  Divine  Hand, 
I  say,  frankly,  that  I  have  never  had  such  fulness  of  satis- 
faction in  any  other  sphere  of  labor. 

"But  it  is  not  Literature!"  cried  a  friend  to  me,  the 
other  day,  voicing  the  sentiment  of  many. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "but  it  is  Influence,  and  that  of 
the  best  kind." 

I  have,  with  all  this,  made  time — or  it  has  been  made 
for  me — to  write  half  a  dozen  books  in  the  last  ten  years. 

Where  Ghosts  Walk  (1898)  was  a  joy  in  the  writing,  as 
was  the  collection  of  material.  It  reproduces  for  me — as  I 
turn  the  pages,  in  maternal  fashion,  lingering  upon  a  scene 
here,  and  snatching  a  phrase  there — our  strayings  in  storied 
climes,  rambles  into  enchanted  nooks  untrodden  by  the 
conventional  tourist,  but  full  of  mystery  and  charm  for 
us.  In  those  dim  paths  I  still  walk  with  the  ghosts  that 
were  once  visible  and  sentient  things  like  ourselves. 

Literary  Hearthstones  (1899-1902)  was,  even  more  em- 
phatically, a  labor  of  delight.  I  had  made  studies  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte  and  Hannah  More,  of  John  Knox  and  Will- 
iam Cowper,  in  the  homes  and  haunts  they  glorified  into 
shrines  for  the  reading  and  the  religious  world.  Other 
hallowed  names  are  yet  on  my  memorandum-book,  and  in 
my  portfolio  are  the  notes  made  in  other  homes  and 
haunts,  and  pictures  collected  for  the  illustrations  of  four 
more  volumes  of  the  series. 

484 


"LITERARY    HEARTHSTONES" 

If  I  live  and  hold  my  strength,  and  health  of  body  and  of 
mind,  I  shall,  please  God,  complete  the  tale  of  worthies  I 
have  singled  out  for  study.  If  not — they  are  yet  mine 
own  brain-children.  None  may  rob  me  of  the  pleasure  of 
having  and  of  holding  them — until  death  us  do  part. 

I  should  be  ungrateful,  and  do  my  own  feelings  a  wrong, 
were  I  to  fail,  in  this  connection,  to  acknowledge  my  obliga- 
tions to  those  who  kindly  seconded  my  efforts  to  accumu- 
late the  material  for  the  Hearthstones. 

Our  pilgrimages  to  Haworth,  Olney,  Wrington,  and 
Edinburgh,  are  starred  in  the  reminiscence  by  hospitable 
intent  and  deed,  by  such  real  sympathy  in  my  mission, 
and  friendly  aid  in  the  prosecution  of  my  design,  that  I 
cannot  pass  them  over  with  casual  mention. 

For  Charlotte  Bronte  I  had,  since  my  early  girlhood, 
nourished  admiration  that  ripened  into  reverence,  as  I 
read  with  avidity  every  page  and  line  relating  to  the  mar- 
vellous sisters.  I  had  conned  her  books  until  I  knew  them, 
from  cover  to  cover.  Her  dramatis  personce  were  friends 
more  familiar  to  the  dreaming  girl  than  our  next-door 
neighbors.  It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  me  that  the 
unforeseen  miscarriage  of  our  plans  frustrated  my  longing 
to  go  to  Haworth,  at  our  first  visit  to  the  Old  World.  So, 
when  my  son  and  I  set  out  for  our  Eastern  trip,  Haworth 
stood  first  upon  our  memorandum  of  places  that  must  be 
seen  in  England.  I  had  letters  from  four  men  who  had 
engaged  to  facilitate  my  attempts  to  enter  the  Parsonage. 
One  and  all,  they  assured  me  that  I  would  find  the  door 
inhospitably  closed  in  my  face.  Nevertheless,  they  ad- 
vised me  to  go  to  Haworth,  and  put  up  at  "that  resort  of 
the  thirsty— the  Black  Bull."  Thus  one  of  the  quartette, 
and  who  had  lately  published  a  book  on  the  Brontes: 

"The  present  incumbent  of  the  parish  is  an  ogre,  a  verita- 
ble dragon!"  he  went  on  to  say.  "He  savagely  refused  to 
let  me  set  foot  upon  his  threshhold,  and  he  turns  hundreds 

485 


MARION     HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  pilgrims  away  empty  every  year.  But  go  to  Ha  worth, 
by  all  means!  Put  up  at  the  ancient  hostelry ;  walkabout 
the  old  stone  house  and  tell  well  its  windows,  and  take 
pleasure  in  Emily's  moors.  The  dragon  has  restored  ( ?) 
the  Bronte  church,  and  consigned  the  remains  of  the  won- 
derful family  to  a  genteel  crypt  under  the  renovated  pave- 
ment. All  the  same,  go  to  Ha  worth!  The  hills  and  the 
moors  and  the  heather  are  unchanged.'" 

In  my  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  I  have  related  how  I 
fared  in  the  pilgrimage  that  stands  out  clearly  in  my  mem- 
ory as  one  of  the  sunniest  spots  of  that  memorable  seven 
months'  tour.  I  have  not  told  how  simple  and  direct 
were  the  means  by  which  I  gained  the  fulfilment  of 
my  desires.  Within  an  hour  after  we  had  registered  our 
names  in  the  shabby  book  kept  for  guests  and  transients 
at  the  Black  Bull,  I  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  Wade,  the  rector 
of  Haworth  Church,  asking  permission  to  "stand,  for  a 
few  minutes,  within  the  doors  of  the  house  that  had  been 
the  home  of  Charlotte  and  Emily  Bronte."  I  added  that 
I  should  not  blame  him  if  he  objected  to  the  intrusion  of 
strangers  upon  domestic  privacy. 

The  messenger  returned  speedily  with  word  that  Mr. 
Wade  had  that  hour  returned  from  London,  and  that  he 
could  not  then  write  a  note.  He  would,  however,  be 
happy  to  see  me  at  the  Rectory  on  the  morrow  (Sunday), 
and  would  write  in  the  morning,  naming  the  hour  for  our 
call.  His  note  came  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  to  say 
that  he  would  be  at  liberty  to  receive  us  between  services. 
We  attended  morning  service,  but,  when  it  was  over,  re- 
frained from  making  ourselves  known  to  the  rector,  linger- 
ing, instead,  in  the  church  to  see  the  tablet  above  the 
Bronte  vault,  and  the  fine  window,  set  in  the  restored  wall 
by  an  anonymous  American,  "To  the  glory  of  God,  and  in 
pleasant  memory  of  Charlotte  Bronte."  Emerging  from  the 
church,  with  the  intention  of  strolling  up  to  the  Parsonage, 

486 


GRATEFUL    REMINISCENCES 

we  were  met  by  Mr.  Wade,  who  had  gone  home,  expecting 
to  find  us  there,  and  was  on  his  way  to  the  inn  to  look  us 
up.  His  cordial  hand-clasp  and  genial  smile  were  so  op- 
posed to  our  preconceptions  of  the  "dragon,"  that  we  ex- 
changed furtive  glances  of  relief.  He  took  us  back  to  the 
Parsonage,  and  showed  us  everything  we  had  wished  to 
see,  with  much  we  had  not  thought  of,  telling  us,  in  the 
same  hospitable  way,  that,  although  he  was  the  only  mem- 
ber of  the  family  at  home  that  day,  he  would  be  happy  to 
have  us  partake  of  a  bachelor's  luncheon.  When  we  de- 
clined, gratefully,  he  accompanied  us  to  the  church,  and 
unlocked  the  case  in  which  is  kept  the  register  of  Charlotte 
Bronte's  marriage,  signed  by  herself — the  last  time  she 
wrote  her  maiden  name. 

Several  letters  passed  between  us,  in  the  course  of  the 
next  four  years,  and  he  opened  to  me,  on  our  second  visit 
to  Ha  worth,  in  1898,  unexpected  avenues  of  information 
respecting  her  whose  biography  I  was  writing,  which  were 
of  incalculable  value  to  me.  When  he  retired  from  the 
active  duties  of  his  profession  to  Hurley,  in  another  county, 
he  wrote  to  me  a  long,  interesting  letter,  enclosing  a  copy 
of  the  resolutions  passed  by  the  Yorkshire  parish  he  had 
served  faithfully  for  forty-seven  years. 

Besides  the  precious  stock  of  building  "material"  for 
the  construction  of  my  story  of  Charlotte,  which  I  could 
have  gained  in  no  other  way  than  through  his  kindly  offices, 
this  odd  friendship  taught  me  a  lesson  of  faith  in  my  kind, 
and  of  distrust  of  hearsay  evidence  and  of  popular  disfavor, 
that  will  last  me  forever.  I  dedicated  the  biography  to 
"Rev.  J.  Wade,  for  forty-seven  years  incumbent  of  Ha- 
worth,  in  cordial  appreciation  of  the  unfailing  courtesy 
and  kindly  aid  extended  by  him  to  the  American  stranger 
within  his  gates/' 

A  dedication  that  brought  me  many  letters  of  surprised 
dissent  from  English  and  American  tourists,  and  writers 

4S7 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

whose  experience  was  less  pleasant  than  my  own.  I  tell 
the  tale,  in  brief,  as  an  act  of  simple  justice  to  a  much- 
abused  man. 

"You  have  been  told  that  I  am  a  vandal  and  a  bear," 
he  said  to  me  on  that  Sunday.  "I  found  church  and  Par- 
sonage almost  in  ruins.  I  was  not  appointed  to  this  parish 
as  the  curator  of  a  museum,  but  to  do  my  best  for  the  cure 
of  souls.  When  I  tell  you  that,  for  ten  years  after  Mr. 
Bronte's  death,  the  average  number  of  sight-seers  who 
called  at  the  Parsonage  was  three  thousand  a  year,  and 
that  they  still  mount  up  to  a  third  of  that  number,  you 
may  be  more  lenient  in  judgment  than  the  touring  public 
and  the  press  proved  themselves  to  be." 

From  Rev.  Mr.  Langley — incumbent  of  Olney,  and  resi- 
dent in  the  quaintly  beautiful  parsonage  that  was  the 
home  of  Lady  Austin,  Cowper's  friend  and  disciple — we  met 
with  courtesy  as  fine.  And  in  seeking  details  of  Han- 
nah More's  private  life,  I  found  an  able  and  enthusias- 
tic assistant  in  Rev.  Mr.  Wright,  of  Wrington,  in  the 
church-yard  of  which  the  "  Queen  of  Barley  wood  "  is 
buried. 

Cherished  reminiscences  are  these,  which  neither  the  mists 
of  years  nor  the  clouds  of  sorrow  have  dimmed.  In  dwell- 
ing upon  them,  as  I  near  the  close  of  my  annals  of  an 
every-day  woman's  life,  I  comprehend  what  the  Psalmist 
meant  when  he  said,  "They  have  been  my  song  in  the 
house  of  my  pilgrimage." 

Perhaps  I  erred  in  writing,  "  every-day  life."  Or,  it  may  be 
because  so  few  women  have  recorded  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  their  lives  as  frankly  and  as  fully  as  I  am  doing,  that  I 
am  asking  myself  whether  it  may  not  be  that  the  chequered 
scene  I  survey  from  the  hill-top — which  gives  me  on  clear 
days  a  fine  view  of  the  Delectable  Mountains — has  been 
exceptionally  eventful,  as  it  has  been  affluent  in  God's 
choicest  gifts  of  home- joys  and  home-loves,  and  in  oppor- 

488 


GRATEFUL    REMINISCENCES 

t unities  of  proving,  by  word  and  in  deed,  my  love  for  fellow- 
travellers  along  the  King's  Highway. 

The  reader  who  has  followed  me  patiently,  because 
sympathetically,  from  the  beginning  of  the  narrative,  will 
comprehend,  through  the  depth  of  that  sympathy,  why  I 
now  leave  to  other  pens  the  recital  of  what  remains  to  be 
said.  The  hands  that  guided  the  pen  were  tender  of  touch, 
the  hearts  were  true  that  dictated  the  report  of  the  Golden 
Wedding  and  the  abstract  of  a  noble  life,  now  developing 
throughout  the  ages  into  the  stature  of  the  Perfect  Man. 
The  voluntary  tributes  they  combined  to  offer  are  dear 
beyond  expression,  to  wife  and  children  and  to  a  great 
host  of  friends. 


APPENDIX 

THE  REV.  EDWARD  PAYSON  TERHUNE,  D.D. 

BY   REV.   JOSEPH   R.    DURYEE,   D.D. 

Permit  one  who  has  loved  Doctor  Terhune  for  fifty  years, 
to  pay  tribute  to  his  character  and  outline  his  attainments. 

He  was  born  in  New  Brunswick,  New  Jersey,  November  22, 
1830.  It  does  not  seem  possible  that  this  was  his  birth-year, 
he  was  so  vigorous  and  his  spirit  was  so  youthful  to  the  end. 
The  best  things  in  life  were  his  rich  inheritance.  His  father, 
Judge  John  Terhune,  for  fifty-four  years  an  elder  in  the  Pres- 
byterian Church,  was  a  rare  man,  and  for  generations  the 
family  had  led  in  the  moral  and  material  development  of  New 
Jersey.  He  was  named  for  Edward  Payson,  his  father's  friend, 
a  saintly  Christian  leader  still  remembered  in  the  American 
church.  Few  boys  have  had  a  happier  childhood.  It  was 
partly  spent  with  his  grandmother  in  Princeton.  Her  house 
was  a  centre  of  influence.  Doctors  Alexander,  Hodge,  Miller, 
and  other  professors  were  her  intimate  friends,  and  the  boy 
was  welcomed  at  their  homes.  Members  of  their  families 
were  life-long  companions.  Entering  Rutgers,  he  was  grad- 
uated in  the  class  of  1850  with  Doctors  Elmendorf  and  Shep- 
erd,  Judges  Lawrence  and  Ludlow,  and  others  who  became 
equally  distinguished.  His  heart  was  set  on  becoming  a 
physician,  and  for  nearly  two  years  he  studied  medicine. 
Then  he  obeyed  the  higher  call  and  consecrated  himself  to  the 
Christian  ministry. 

On  graduating  from  the  New  Brunswick  Seminary,  several 
calls  came.  He  accepted  that  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  of 
Charlotte  Court-House,  Virginia,  and  in  the  spring  of  1855 

491 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

began  his  pastorate.  It  was  an  ideal  charge  for  any  man. 
The  best  blood  of  the  Old  Dominion  was  in  the  congregation. 
No  less  than  eighty-six  of  the  members  were  college  graduates. 
In  1856  he  married  Miss  Mary  Virginia  Hawes,  of  Richmond. 
Their  home  became  as  near  the  ideal  as  any  this  earth  has 
known — beautiful  in  its  comradeship,  beneficent  in  its  in- 
fluence. 

In  1858,  Doctor  Terhune  was  called  to  the  pastorate  of  the 
First  Reformed  Dutch  Church,  of  Newark.  To  decide  as  he 
did,  must  have  been  a  singular  test  of  faith  and  courage.  The 
claims  of  material  comfort,  intellectual  fellowship,  and  family 
ties  on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  depleted  church,  in  a  com- 
munity almost  entirely  dependent  for  support  on  manu- 
facturing interests,  most  of  which  were  then  bankrupt.  But 
Doctor  Terhune  was  a  soldier  of  the  cross,  and  the  red  fighting 
blood  ran  too  strong  in  him  to  resist  the  opportunity  that 
called  for  heroic  self-denial,  constraint,  toil  and  trials  of  faith 
and  patience  that  would,  for  years,  tax  to  the  utmost  every 
power  of  heart  and  mind.  Few  men  have  possessed  as  clear 
a  vision  of  life;  for  him  there  were  no  illusions  in  the  Newark 
outlook.  He  knew  that,  in  the  modern  city  life,  then  just  be- 
ginning, must  be  fought  the  main  battle  of  Christianity  with 
the  powers  of  evil.  His  commission  was  to  lead,  and  he  ac- 
cepted the  detail.  For  eighteen  years  Doctor  Terhune  re- 
mained at  his  post.  Immediately  his  work  began  to  tell  for 
blessing,  nor  was  this  confined  to  his  parish; — the  entire  city 
felt  his  presence.  While  his  work  in  all  its  many  parts  was 
of  the  highest  order,  the  man  was  always  greater  than  his 
work.  Men,  women,  and  children  instinctively  loved  him. 
They  brought  to  him  their  problems,  then  felt  his  impression 
on  their  hearts.  And  it  was  abiding.  To-day  a  great  com- 
pany scattered  throughout  the  earth  thank  God  for  what  he 
wrought  in  them. 

In  1876,  in  consequence  of  the  state  of  Mrs.  Terhune's 
health,  Doctor  Terhune  resigned  his  Newark  charge,  and  went 
abroad.  His  ministry  did  not  lapse,  for  all  the  time  he  la- 
bored as  chaplain,  first  in  Rome  and  then  in  Paris,  having 
entire  charge  of  the  American  churches  there. 

492 


APPENDIX 

Immediately  on  his  return,  in  1878,  he  received  calls  from 
leading  churches  in  Newark,  Plainfield,  New  Haven,  and 
Springfield,  Massachusetts.  The  last  named  he  accepted. 
There  he  remained  for  five  years,  honored  and  loved  through- 
out the  city.  Then  came  another  call.  The  Williamsburg 
Reformed  Church  in  Brooklyn  had  had  a  remarkable  history. 
At  times  prosperous,  then  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  In  the 
centre  of  a  great  population,  with  a  plant  capable  of  accom- 
modating an  enormous  congregation,  it  had  never  fulfilled 
its  promise.  Unless  an  unusual  man,  with  rare  gifts,  not 
merely  eloquence  and  ordinary  leadership,  but  with  almost 
divine  tact,  patience,  and  unselfishness,  came  to  save  it,  the 
church  would  disband.  Doctor  Terhune  loved  the  Old  Dutch 
Church  as  loyally  as  any  man  who  has  ever  served  her,  but 
this  call  must  have  taxed  his  sense  of  proportion.  I  am  sure 
it  was  his  Master's  higher  call  that  decided  him  to  go  to 
Williamsburg.  He  had  never  cared  for  wealth  except  for 
its  uses,  was  generous  in  every  direction,  and  needed  all  the 
salary  he  could  win;  and  the  church  was  $80,000  in  debt;  its 
membership  was  scattered,  and  its  attendants  divided  into 
antagonistic  groups.  More  than  one  friend  urged  him  to  re- 
fuse such  a  sacrifice.  What  the  seven  years'  labor  there  cost 
him  only  God  knew.  He  became  twenty  years  older  in  ap- 
pearance, and  he  lost  much  of  the  splendid  vitality  that  had 
never  before  failed  him  for  any  length  of  time.  But  he  left 
the  church  united,  entirely  free  from  debt,  and  with  a  promise 
for  the  future  never  before  so  bright.  A  year  abroad  was 
needed  to  establish  his  broken  health. 

Since  then  Doctor  Terhune,  while  refusing  another  pastor- 
ate, has  been  a  constant  laborer.  Large  churches  in  Chicago 
and  St.  Louis  called  him.  In  these,  he  became  for  upward  of 
a  year  a  stated  supply,  but  he  knew  that  his  physical  strength 
was  waning.  A  few  years  ago,  he  underwent  a  serious  surgical 
operation,  and  for  nearly  six  months  lay  helpless  from  its 
effect.  Indeed,  his  life  was  despaired  of.  I  talked  with  his 
surgeon,  who  told  me  that,  in  his  long  experience,  he  had 
"never  known  a  patient  endure  greater  or  more  constant  suf- 
fering; I  cannot  understand  his  marvellous  self-control.     He 

493 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

is  always  bright,  always  thinking  of  others,  and  never  of  him- 
self." It  was  characteristic.  After  his  recovery  Doctor  Ter- 
hune  led  an  active  life.  The  churches  sought  his  help,  and 
he  was  a  frequent  preacher  in  New  York,  Newark,  and  else- 
where. More  than  forty  years  ago,  he  purchased  a  tract  of 
land  on  Pompton  Lake,  New  Jersey.  It  was  then  a  primitive 
region,  to  which  he  was  attracted  by  the  scenery  and  the  op- 
portunity to  satisfy  his  special  recreation;  for  from  boyhood 
he  was  a  great  fisherman.  As  time  and  means  permitted,  he 
made  "  Sunnybank"  blossom  into  rare  beauty.  How  he  loved 
this  home!  There  he  lived  close  to  nature,  and  the  trees, 
flowers,  streams,  and  sky  rested  and  refreshed  him.  Because 
a  true  child  of  nature,  she  gave  back  to  him  rich  treasures 
that  are  denied  to  most;  a  joy  in  her  communion;  knowledge 
of  her  secrets;  a  vision  of  God  through  her  revelation.  There 
dear  friends  gathered  about  him,  and  the  ideal  beauty  of  a 
country  home  was,  through  his  inspiration,  revealed  to  some 
for  the  first  time. 

A  year  ago,  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Terhune  celebrated  their  golden 
wedding.  After  a  day  of  loving  congratulations  from  friends 
almost  innumerable,  who,  in  body  or  spirit,  gathered  about 
them,  they  took  their  wedding  journey  in  their  carriage,  driv- 
ing horses  born  on  their  place,  through  the  country  of  his  boy- 
hood and  elsewhere.  The  refreshment  of  this  fortnight  of 
perfect  happiness  lingered  on  for  all  the  remaining  days  of 
earth. 

More  than  forty  years  ago,  while  a  pastor  in  Newark,  Doc- 
tor Terhune  united  with  Alpha  Delta,  an  association  limited 
to  twelve  active  members,  meeting  monthly  at  their  homes. 
With  its  founders  in  1855,  among  whom  were  Drs.  G.  W.  Ber- 
thune,  Robert  Davidson,  A.  R.  Van  Nest,  A.  B.  Van  Zandt, 
and  others,  he  was  intimate.  After  the  death  of  Doctor 
Chambers  he  became  the  senior  member,  and  in  1900  prepared 
its  history,  a  copy  of  which  is  before  me  now.  In  the  brief 
studies  of  the  character  of  nearly  two  score  friends,  there  is 
revealed  the  secret  of  his  power.  He  possessed  the  genius  of 
friendship  as  few  have  done. 

Ten  days  before  the  end  came,  he  read  to  Alpha  Delta  a 

494 


APPENDIX 

paper  prepared  at  our  request,  "The  Story  of  the  Jamestown, 
Virginia,  Settlement  and  the  James  River  Estates."  Every 
monograph  of  Doctor  Terhime  had  its  special  value,  but  into 
this  last  he  poured  the  memories  of  happy  years  and  an  esti- 
mate of  values  in  human  life,  as  never  before.  All  through 
there  ran  that  subtle  charm  of  style,  tender  pathos,  and  gentle 
humor  of  which  he  was  master.  And  there  was  added  a  pecul- 
iar quality  impossible  to  define.  I  think  we  all  felt  that,  un- 
consciously, he  had  pictured  himself,  always  seeing,  knowing, 
loving,  and  inspiring  the  best  in  men.  Not  feeling  well,  he 
left  us  suddenly.  There  was  no  good-bye.  Perhaps  it  is  better 
so.     But  Alpha  Delta  can  never  be  the  same  to  us  here. 

After  a  week  of  fever  he  fell  asleep,  to  awaken  in  the  Father's 
House,  to  the  vision  of  the  One  he  loved,  and  with  Him,  the 
children  who  had  passed  before. 

More  than  once  I  have  been  asked  to  describe  the  dis- 
tinctive characteristics  of  admirable  men,  and  have  named 
them  "many-sided,"  and  "standing  four  square."  But 
as  I  think  of  Doctor  Terhune,  the  trite  phrases  seem  in- 
sufficient. Nor  is  it  easy  to  differentiate  his  character. 
He  was  a  strong  man  physically,  intellectually,  and  morally. 
As  few  of  his  generation,  he  held  his  course  through  a  long  life 
of  trial  consistently.  He  had  a  definite  hatred  of  sin,  and 
when  duty  called,  never  hesitated  to  particularize  the  evil  of 
which  men  were  guilty.  But  in  this  he  always  aimed  to  dis- 
cover to  such  the  good  they  were  capable  of  attaining.  His 
fearless  courage  was  balanced  by  the  finest  gentleness.  His 
presence  was  gracious,  and  the  charm  of  perfect  manners  was 
natural  in  him.  Instinctively,  men  looked  up  to  him  and  re- 
membered his  sayings.  Doctor  Terhune  was  a  diligent  man; 
all  his  life  he  was  a  student.  He  loved  his  books  intelligently. 
His  literary  experience  was  unusual  in  its  range  and  depth. 
Even  more  than  books  he  studied  men;  their  problems  were 
his  greatest  interest.  He  thought  these  out  so  wisely  and 
sympathetically  that  he  seemed  to  possess  the  prophet's 
vision. 

In  the  pulpit,  Doctor  Terhune  was  earnest,  clear,  direct,  and 
simple.     His  teachers  had  been  rare  men  in  the  school  of 

495 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

eloquence  that  was  the  glory  of  America  fifty  years  ago.  On 
occasion  he  was  equal  to  the  best  of  these.  As  I  recall  his 
presence  in  his  Newark  church,  I  seem  now  to  hear  his  wonderful 
voice  ring  out  words  that  moved  men  to  purer  thinking,  nobler 
living,  and  greater  loyalty  to  the  Master  he  loved.  As  a  pastor, 
he  was  devoted  to  every  interest  of  his  people ;  in  their  homes 
no  guest  was  as  welcome.  These,  and  other  traits  I  could 
name,  found  their  spring  in  as  tender  a  heart  as  ever  beat; 
constantly  he  carried  there  all  God  gave  him  to  love.  Next 
to  the  members  of  his  family,  I  think  his  ministerial  brethren 
realized  most  this  supreme  value  in  their  friend.  They  knew 
he  loved  them  as  few  men  could.  I  have  never  heard  him 
speak  an  unkind  word  of  a  clergyman.  His  presence  never 
failed  to  hearten  and  stimulate  them  in  their  work.  So  he 
honored  his  manhood  and  his  calling.  He  has  left  behind 
not  only  a  stainless  name,  but  living  and  blessed  power. 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

In  her  beautiful  home  at  Pompton,  New  Jersey,  surrounded 
by  the  flowers  she  loves  so  dearly,  "Marion  Harland,"  the 
celebrated  writer,  held  court,  Saturday  afternoon.  More  prop- 
erly speaking,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Payson  Terbune  were  "at 
home"  from  four  to  seven  o'clock,  the  occasion  being  the 
celebration  of  their  golden-wedding  anniversary. 

In  front  of  the  house,  upon  the  prettiest  bit  of  lawn  for 
miles  about,  was  set  the  present  that  children  and  grand- 
children gave — a  sundial  made  of  Pompton  granite,  inscribed 
with  the  same  pretty  legend  as  that  upon  the  famous  one  of 
Queen  Alexandra  at  Sanclringham: 

"  Let  others  tell  of  storm  or  showers, 
I  only  mark  the  sunny  hours." 

The  little  room,  set  aside,  as  upon  the  occasion  of  a  real 
wedding,  for  the  presents,  revealed  plenty  of  sentiment.  There 
was  a  cake,  made  from  an  old  Virginia  recipe,  baked  in  the 

496 


APPENDIX 

shape  that  every  Virginian  bride  in  '"'Marion  Harland's"  girl- 
hood days  used  to  have.  It  had  been  made  by  an  old  friend. 
A  great  bowl  of  water-lilies  stood  near  by — some  one  had  got 
up  at  daybreak  and  scoured  their  haunts  to  get  fifty  of  them 
to  present. 

Gold  purses  and  gold-trimmed  purses — some  of  them  with 
gold  pieces  inside — a  gold  brooch  for  the  wife  and  a  gold  scarf- 
pin  for  her  husband,  gold  fruit-knives,  and  Austrian  glassware 
were  among  the  gifts. 

In  the  receiving -party  were  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Terhune's 
daughters  and  daughter-in-law — Mrs.  Christine  Terhune  Her- 
rick,  Mrs.  Van  de  Water,  and  Mrs.  Albert  Payson  Terhune. 
The  men  of  the  family  did  honors  as  ushers,  and  the  boys — 
the  grandsons — patrolled  the  porches  and  lawn  with  ices  and 
salads  and  delicious  yellow-iced  cakes. 

Golden-rod  and  golden-glow  were  everywhere.  The  porch 
posts  were  hidden  from  sight  by  them,  and  the  room  where 
the  receiving-party  stood  was  banked  and  massed  in  a  be- 
wilderment of  blooms. 

And  "Marion  Harland"  herself,  in  her  beautiful  gown  of 
black  lace,  with  violet  orchids  pinned  upon  her  bosom,  did 
honors,  much  after  the  manner  of  that  famous  hostess  of  old 
whose  greeting  was  invariably  "At  last!"  and  whose  parting 
word  was  "Already?"  Only  (unlike  that  famous  hostess) 
through  her  greetings  unmistakably  rang  the  note  of  sincerity. 

Everybody  wandered  about  in  delightfully  informal  fashion. 
Doctor  Terhune  and  General  Buffington  gossiped  of  old  times 
in  one  corner;  "Marion  Harland,"  Margaret  E.  Sangster,  May 
Riley  Smith,  and  two  or  three  others  made  an  interesting  group 
in  another,  and  reminiscences  were  so  beautiful  and  so  many — 
"Do  you  remember  when  we  used  to  do  this  or  that?" — the 
sentence  most  constantly  heard — that  unconsciously  you  be- 
gan to  regret  that  you,  yourself,  had  not  lived  in  those  days, 
so  splendid  seemed  the  sentiment  and  the  honor  of  the 
times. 

Everybody  came  who  could.  Some  had  travelled  all  day 
to  get  there,  and  must  travel  all  night  to  get  home  again.  Let- 
ters— there  were  hundreds  of  them,  for  it  seemed  that  every- 

497 


MARION    HARLAND'S    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

body  who  even  knew  her  slightly,  wanted  to  send  some  word 
of  greeting  to  "Marion  Harland." 

Among  the  invited  guests  were  Prof,  and  Mrs.  John  W. 
Burgess,  Prof,  and  Mrs.  William  H.  Carpenter,  Prof,  and 
Mrs.  B.  D.  Woodward,  of  Columbia;  Miss  Laura  D.  Gill, 
Dean  of  Barnard  College;  Dr.  and  Mrs.  G.  H.  Fox,  Mrs. 
Henry  Villard,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Scribner,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
G.  H.  Putnam,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Lauterbach,  the  Rev.  Dr. 
George  Alexander,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rossiter  Johnson,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Albert  Bigelow  Paine,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Cary  Eggle- 
ston,  the  Rev.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  James  I.  Vance,  of  Newark,  New 
Jersey;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Talcott  Williams,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francis 
Howard  Williams,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Churchill  Williams,  of  Phila- 
delphia; Gen.  and  Mrs.  A.  R.  Bumngton,  Mrs.  Margaret  E. 
Sangster,  Miss  Ida  Tarbell,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albert  Smith. — 
Philadelphia  North  American,  September  2,  1906. 


THE   END 


